dishwasher safe

poems that survive the cycle

Half the year is gone and I still don't know what it's about. In the meantime: poems about a bowl, a foot, and a playlist.

Enjoy.

poem # 1 - unacceptable!

we are halfway through the year and I still don't know what it's about. if 2026 were a book, that would be unacceptable! it would have never gotten published, but I suppose I don't know too much about any of that yet. the way I wear an xxl t-shirt I got as a consolation and drink decaffeinated tea while clutching a book is somewhat similar to the vulnerable, unprepared state I live in now. I build my pillows around me so when I later fall asleep I can flip from side to side like a pancake hoping to please you with its even, perfect goldness. why is it that retrospection makes definition so much easier? I don't know when I got so much stuff, it just sort of happened. have I always lived in such a state of desperation? there's only 0% fat yogurt and grapes in my fridge but I still manage to eat. whenever someone sees me, will you let me know? the last time I really caught a glimpse was 2022 but maybe I haven't been paying attention. that's why cars beep and blink now, because none of us ever pay attention. I should be reading but I unlock and lock my phone again instead. it's always trying to tell me things, just like my car. maybe my problem is that I don't listen. 

poem # 2 - the only living thing

It's 101 degrees 
and I am trying to recall 
love.

Hard to remember
in a room air-conditioned to nothing
in a town I never wanted to live in.
So, I go through the notes
of what it once was. 

Because I am 
a masochist who loves 
a riddle, the only living thing 
of my first love’s that I can still see 
is his Spotify. 
I wonder 
if he looks at mine
to see how I am doing.

What would you say it means
if he made a new playlist
called "diseased" 
that only has one song on it? 
The song is the one
I embroidered the lyrics of
onto a sweatshirt sleeve. 
The song is the one
we would listen to at the same time
in separate zip codes. 
The song is ours. 

I lay down on the floor and listen to it
the way you'd listen
for a heartbeat.
It's so much shorter than I remember. 
Isn't everything? 

I hope 
the next time love comes, 
it is so long. 
I hope 
the heat leaves but the warmth stays. 
I hope 
love never leaves
whenever it comes back. 

poem #3 - stackable

I looked in your bowl
to see if you have enough.
You looked in my bowl
to see if I had more than you. 

I don't want to be a bowl
but I suppose it is fine. 
I like to hold things. 

I wonder if I will ever be held again
but that's not relevant
to a ceramic bowl. 

If I am lucky enough
to be carried into another room of this house,
perhaps I will be held with two hands,
careful and patient enough
not to spill what's left inside of me.

Have all my cereal 
then take my spoon too. 
I am still myself when empty. 
I am still myself without someone else
to excavate what's inside of me. 

I'm ready to take myself out of metaphor now,
but I do like the idea
of our bowls stacked in the cupboard
holding nothing 
but each other.

poem #4 - circulation

Oh! You know 
when your foot has fallen asleep
and it is filled with static
like a TV looking for a familiar connection
but finding nothing? 
That's how I feel. 
I think my soul's fallen asleep. 
Can you shake a soul awake?
Splash some cold water?  
I will do it! Just tell me how!
Let me wake up
and feel the warmth 
of excitement spread through my chest
like an electric kettle brought quickly to boil. 
I miss the feeling of despair
that's climbed deep enough 
to knock on your pelvic floor
to see if your bones are still intact. 
Dread, the early riser, no longer wakes me up. 
In my dreams, we fight
and I love it. 
I love having something
to scream over. 
I wonder if circulation is the same
as a cyclical narrative, 
does it always come back around?

sending my love,
caroline mae woodson