Melanie Browne

is made of
galvanized steel,
heavy duty trash bags
and Minnie Mouse
duct tape,
it is reinforced
with moon pies
and hot-glued
with egg rolls
My steampunk heart
will last
for centuries,
I will have
love affairs
with vampires
that have fancy names
like
Lord Deerstalker
or Count
Peanut-Butter Merriweather
You won’t break my
steampunk heart,
so please don’t
even try

They all approach the
microphone
to give their
personal introduction,
they all have different
dreams, psychologist,
hair stylist (she states
she will “Tease it to Jesus”)
actress, singer,
but one gal wants to be
a CIA agent,
and I can’t help
but worry that she’s
outed herself,
one girl wants to
be an astrophysicist,
none of them say
they want to
be a stay at home mom,
or housewife,
none of them say they want
to wash dishes by hand
when the dishwasher breaks,
or calm a crying six year
old who lost
his first tooth,
they don’t say they
want to take their child
to speech therapy
and thumb through
glossy magazines
and daydream briefly
about a different life,
maybe in Cuba,
where they learn to play
the claves,
and the light
dances in
the plumeria trees

my nine year old
socked another boy
in the nose and
made it bleed,
they weren’t fighting,
he was just playing
too rough,
lacked the impulse control
I talked to him about
keeping his hands to himself,
“don’t make a fist,”
I told him
and i thought about
how ridiculous
that request was,
how we come out of
the womb with fists
ready,
gloves at the ready,
featherweight,
welterweight,
or heavyweight,
it doesn’t really
matter,
we are ready
to go the distance
looking for our corner man
we have fistfuls
of nothing

At the park with my kids,
I watch as various
children take turns
throwing giant handfuls
of sand at a mural
of Mickey Mouse,
and they never seem to
tire of this, the line
stretching further and further
until I lose track,
their rage becoming
palpable, some of
them smearing the sand
on Mickey’s ears,
“take that!” they scream,
they know
where the blame belongs,
and I smile as
I watch the beginnings
of the new paradigm

I read a biography of Anne Sexton
while eating chocolate chip cookies.
and I want to share these things with you.
I want to confess these things
to you. I like chocolate chip cookies.
Indeed, right out of the oven. A soft batch
they melt in my mouth and I don’t want to share them with you.
they are for me alone. I want to read this biography
of Anne Sexton by myself with chocolate chip cookies.
I could never write about masturbation like Anne did.
I would die of shame. I can’t believe I wrote that
word. Masturbation. Oh my god. I better eat another cookie.

It’s always
day of the dead
in my head,

stay awhile,
and visit,

I have some
sugar skulls,
marigolds,

we can
drink mezcal
and ride
my Andalusian
horse in a parade
down Santa Maria La Ribera,
We’ll wear
tissue paper flowers
in our hair,

it’s so much fun
but you
have to stay
forever

I hear the call of the wild
In the morning,
right after I get
the kids off to
school and feed the dogs,
but before I surf the net.

I hear the call of the wild
after I load the dishwasher
but before I call my mom
to tell her about the dream
I had, the one about Jude Law

I hear the call of the wild
right after the kids
get home from school,
and sometimes after Oprah

I hear the call of the wild
between the time that
Bill O’Reilly starts
and the kids are getting
ready for bed

I hear the call of the wild
sometime After the
kids fall asleep
but before David Letterman
signs off

I heed the call of the wild,
I practice nashing my teeth
I growl at My Shih-tzu
but he doesn’t growl back