by Phoenix Alarcio

What’s the cure for the lone wolf, hungry
to howl with her pack? What’s the cure
for fictionalizing real life, fashioning your
fantasy out of ratty paperbacks and diaries

found at the flea market? Thumb to a random
page in every book. Each first word strung
together makes a sentence. Each insult flung
is just a jest. Everyone’s LARPing, fandoms

collide like pinball machines and I am stuck.
Like pushing on a pull door, I fumble to form
friendships in this pressure cooker cacophony
of love ideologies. To communicate or to cut?
That is one question. Can I even trust my own
perception? Or am I merely sleep deprived?

by Phoenix Alarcio

How do I know I am captivated by you?
Your googly eyes, dark as bark arrest me
like I’m a high schooler playing hooky,
caught pants down in the janitor’s room.

Why do I say I’m going, but I’m not out the door?
My questions, sharp as darts at an Irish bar,
pierce your alveoli. Your answers on par
with Yoda make me stop keeping score.

I see you in an unsolicited script I unearthed
between the cushions of the orange couch,
at work. I can’t help but think it’s divine, a sign,
though I don’t believe in God. Maybe flirt
and find out? Maybe fuck and fall out?
Boy, tell me again, what are my lines?