We are both reservoirs

Mom delivers the bad news like she’s asking a question.
Grief is a man in bed. Kids standing on a roof looking down.

Going outside without my keys or my money or my jacket.
A little hill north of town I’ve never noticed before.

We are both reservoirs, flooding the wilderness of this house.
Love is a battlefield but never a room with a leaky ceiling

or the stiff spider arms of earth movers waiting to turn up the dirt
or the man who lets his big dogs stick their noses into the surprised crotches of strangers

or the cowboy sitting his horse to let the skateboarders pass
or the snow freezing budding leaves to their branches

or the pancakes resting under a towel
or the lighter fluid, the crabapple blossoms,

you making the sign of the cross with a lemon over the salmon,
our rattailed radishes, Friday’s little white ass,

painful memories blowing by on rollerblades,
the diamond shaped hole in the clouds that the sun falls through.



the proof is everyone

the proof is everyone
is the same trying
to take a chunk

out of the experience
even me right now
wiping a cum stain

off the floor
& making note of it
how do you make sense

of something
that is only distantly yours
like imagining your own obituary

or your great grandfather
whose name was George

or those of us watching
our useless dads

their own ideas
& feeling good
for being born

here’s a new city to live in
propane tanks like stacks
of teal tic tacs

air conditioning
a fridge with an ice dispenser
a dishwasher & a spare bedroom

thunderhead edging the skyline
lightning pumping through it like veins
through a thigh

eating falafel off our laps in the car
peeing in a gas station
bathroom just because

it was a beautiful day
& every word in Swedish
is now meatball

people lined up outside
for ice cream & I
fell asleep counting

the number
of letters in words
on my fingers

existing (8)
perpetually (11) outside (7)
the (3) group (5) chat (4)

I’ve never lived like this before
when I touch you I pretend
it’s the last time

it’s much sweeter
the lasts
running up

on the shoreline
of my beach heart
making a clumpy mess

of red seaweed
in the crotch of my bathing suit
it’s amazing

what we can get used to
reality upending itself
every day & somehow

we’re still laughing
when we get home
& fucking a good fuck

when we wake up
it’s fucking
dumb to be alive


Gion Davis is a poet from northern New Mexico where she grew up on a sheep ranch. Her poetry has been featured in Wax Nine Journal, The Vassar Review, Blush Literary Journal and others. She has received the Best New Poets of 2018 Prize selected by Ocean Vuong as well as being shortlisted for the Peach Magazine Gold Prize selected by Morgan Parker. She graduated with her MFA in Poetry from the University of Massachusetts in Amherst in 2019 and currently lives in Denver, Colorado. Gion can be found on Instagram @starkstateofmind.