Sara Vander Zwaag

Nothing comes into view.
Twelve nights without Ben leer on the hills with the fog;
busted faces of the sun that are turned towards and away from.
I want to say, “good god,” to him, but it’s harder to be the one left.
I will the S in Seattle to become my name.
Make these two weeks fill his belly with a beast that bears my semblance.
Love me, dammit. Love me back.
In his absence, I unfold a thousand wisps of what to do.
I’m bored. The moon is a crescent shape. This morning I had eggs.
He’ll know that means I missed him, eating eggs.
He’ll guess the sound machine was unplugged in a rage.
And it’s true. The ocean swells.

* * *

There’s been a lot of Jupiter on the wall;
they indicate that this is the month of two faces,
and I have shown the world both of mine at every moment:
they sit, one atop the other, and occasionally take turns up front.
In the restaurant, the candlelight makes my right eye twitch.
What is it in the ambiance that I cannot take?
I am okay, yes. I am simply eating more lettuce and onion;
I am trying to grow old with you every time
I feel an old emotion. Right now, I am trying to remember
that four days alone does not mean the world of my friends
has gone to dinner without me, and you are not the front of the parade.
You are here to love me, and I am here to comment
on the pizza sauce in a way that forgives my two faces for flexing,
in a way that owns my emotions as mine, not shards of yours,
not a tape that catches its own loop. When did I decide
that I am the one who loves more always?
What a stupid way to remain empty.
January, you will be mine.

* * *

Which Witch

Witches pulled from the grass.
Witches pulled from the deep.

Fat-armed witches roll dough
while unarmed witches sleep.

There are three things I will ask Ben to keep:
infinite witches, obviously, first;

the moon we have killed by loving it;
a third thing I cannot think of.