Ebbing

Jake Phillips

Years pass & still the gap swallows
its own waters. The base widens,
edges narrowing as they crumble
to rapids below. When I close my eyes
I see it all backwards:

the cascade reforms. Your quiet unhugs me
goodbye the last time I opened the door,
unkissed the dogs. & the time before
that, & the time before that you pack fresh
bread in reverse: undo the twist tie, unbag
the warmth, return the crusty ends to it,
the knife soldering. The mouth widens:

waters faster. I reverse remember
how to breathe. My heart uneven & if
I close my eyes, return (my head
on your chest) yours beats, too.

Somewhere in the pull unfoaming we dirty
the house a hundred times. Cocoons of hair
& lint cry from vacuum pores, return
to corners & hiding, blanket the sorrow.
Photo ink returns to some CVS machine,
& on a mini golf course the light leaves
our cheeks softening from smiles.

The waters recede. By the pool,
I run away from the camcorder
you tuck into leather. I ask you to start
smoking again. You unsay you’re never
sending me away, hang up the phone,
unpack my old red schoolbag. Droplets
climb to the sky & dish soap spills
from my mouth & there’s so many
unopened Sweet’N Low packets.

We have so much sweetness, you
& I, here. We hear Barney sing
the Make Mess song as Cheez Puff
stains leave my face, the bibs. I unwet
your cheeks, untug your earrings.

You pick me up from the earth, not knowing
it would be the first time you’ve held me.
& you hold me in your arms, womb.
The ground beneath us solid, sun-warmed.

Jake Phillips is a queer poet based in Rhode Island. He was named a finalist for the Miami Book Festival’s Emerging Writer Fellowship in Poetry. You can find his poetry published or forthcoming in The Massachusetts Review, & Change, CAROUSEL, Poetry Online, and elsewhere.