“That’s why I quit politics,” a teen says into his cellphone, juuling with his free hand.

The problem that afternoon was that when the woman seven months pregnant, in the throes of fentanyl addiction, began giving birth on the sidewalk

burn me some herbs
put on some tea (osmanthus oolong, please) and light the stove to slowly
let it steep

we roll our bodies down the hillside
everything feels so green

there is nothing separating us but a few inches of cold metal, through which his questions stream like water through a sieve.

he never smiles, only glares at the camera
like he’s looking right into your soul,
and wanting you.

there is no liquid like grief—
the moon pulls it all,

and my body responds,
begins to bleed.

Cheeks wet with tears, I croak—Jessica, you are the biggest fucking cunt in Somerville.
She giggles like a female alien, inhales serenely, and says Thank you.

It’s like the menu was created for those of us born with skeletal and jaw problems. Clam chowder, broiled cod, boiled carrots—foods that deliver without crunch.