Vanishing Act

 

I’ve lost two more pounds I say that’s fourteen total now

the APRN stops scrolling the blood test results

how do you feel

I feel good and go on

to explain how the ridges of  my upper rib cage

reflected in a mirror

surprised me

to myself I scroll through mental images

of gaunt shipwrecked sailors

and stereotypical scarecrows

 

I’ve upped my protein intake

If you want to gain you need carbohydrates

are you telling me as a medical professional

to eat more pasta

she won’t commit to that

but I call it a win

 

that night the skeleton attempts to debate me

muscle mass versus bone and cartilage

without my framework

you would be nothing do you hear me

nothing

 

[RK, 4/19/2026]

 Whole Foods

 

quinoa, barley, amaranth, millet, and oats

as long as the pantry jars are

replenished with brown grains

full of the necessary nutrients

and essential amino acids

there is no way I could die

and leave all this food behind

 

well that’s a wish

that will probably

not come to pass

 

I’ll pack the jars into a

separate paragraph in the

final will and testament

 

would you eat them

knowing how they were incapable of

actually sustaining life?

 

[RK, 4/6/2026]

Disorder

A tabletop full 

of early spring flowers.

A pantry crammed 

with empty vessels.

No one feels 

like eating.

[LSS, 3/16/26]

Bus Stop on the Diagonal Line

Two people talk

while 

two people eavesdrop 

while

two people record

the conversation.

[LSS, 3/7/26] 

 Infrathin part 3

First Poet: Dictionary pages painted/marked with India ink. Then placed between sheets of paper vellum/tracing paper and stitched all over to hold the layers together. Pages then cut into 1” squares. One page of squares restitched into a chain is 58” long.

Second Poet: Wow Duchamp died in 1968, we were all alive at the same time.

[LSS & RK, 3/7/2026]

 

Stop, Don’t Stop

First Poet: The eye wanders over an unfinished work of art and hopes that it will never be completed.

Second Poet: yet there are innumerable rest stops along the way

bitter coffee in chipped mugs

ordering "today's special"

pretending to fight over the last slice of rural pie

standing in a dusty gravel parking lot beneath a rising moon

the inescapable scent of freshly mown alfalfa perfuming the night air

cattle rustlers you only hear about

lonely couples leaning against pickup trucks

atypical country swing music

sawdust across dance floors

coyotes prowling where the streetlights end

 

the last cherry Lifesaver from a roll is a sign

that finishing is okay and you can say

‘this is my stop, let me off here”

 

[LSS & RK, 3/6/2026]

Interior View

When there is nothing left to think

about today, I draw a picture 

of my new titanium hip. It comes out 

looking like Camano Island. 

After that, I find a stale fortune 

cookie under the refrigerator.  

“You are/are not an island,” 

it says. “Circle one.” 

There are no lucky numbers.

[LSS, 3/1/26]