Calendula

Sometimes I eat like I want to break myself.
Every time I see my brother, his head seems to have gotten smaller.
He's probably shrinking it
to avoid losing it to his "man-eating succubus" of a wife.
Do I have green stuff on my face?
I schmeared some lemon balm on it. Sweet Melissa.
My nephew poses with a $100 bill. His mom comments, "you better put that back!"
Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner, but The city I live in? Really?
My grandma waits, looking out the window, for the oil people to come fill her tank.
When the cop took my Florida license and parent's address into her car last night, I remembered Murphy's law.
More faster-er, Netflix promises.

Mary Donahue has eyes that defy the plumbing of their depths. In a few moments' assay, one may feel one has reached the inner ken. Then the iris' swirl outward
expanding exponentially like spheres of storm cloud, spreading wings and encompassing one. One attempts to remain extant simply by maintaining the gaze. The iris' swirl back down to size, winged layers lappingover each other. Did that happen? one asks oneself. Maintaining the gaze, painful as the sun through thick cloud, one falls into the trap of pride. I can hang. The eyes are glassy magnets, and there is some kind of prize within, if one could just...
You have good eye contact; you are articulate, she tells me. You've qualified for the real interview.

In my dream, I throw a party at someone else's house, get sweet with someone else's ex-fling.

I ask the old Quechua mamichas,
This plant, it's for eating?
They laugh haughtily; Es para las vacas, they tell me. For cows.