Sara Mumolo


 

I know to put on cooking music by Port Defiance ferry bells.

 

Spend three hours to cross the Sound.
Waiting for someone to see our bodies, we push
past masses for one particular recognition.
What we call Rush Hour is a skill
and its product is that nothing feels rushed:
running through water.

 

 

 

My face is a scandal.

 

Near oblivion youth melts.
Long after Error my inability to peel away,
which is to peel toward you, persists:
one never loses the thought of one’s capital.
We forget what Names we were.

 

 

 

I bite our swarming innards.

 

Everyone waves around temperature
adults shriek their rap sheets.
A screen I hardly— irresponsibly—write off.
Our flagpoles erect out of pathetic
lawns and no one can remember
when the attacks