so last week I posted the original draft of this and its major revision, and mentioned making it into a villanelle. and lo and behold, here it is! of course, thanks to the brilliance of my writing partner, I discovered that the form I have is not a villanelle at all, but whatever. it's a McConnell-elle or something (that's Roger's suggestion. blame him.)

I haven't decided yet which of the revisions I like best. I'm leaning toward the form one, but that might just be because I've never written anything in form that I actually liked. votes and comments welcome!

I highly recommend this as an exercise: take a poem you're not crazy about, and try it in whatever form it seems to suggest to you. here 'tis:

burn all the letters

don't ask me about his mouth.
most days this job has me at the wrong ocean
missing Brooklyn, our slanted kitchen, your ankles.
at the register: green apples, zucchini, lime popsicles.

most days this job has me at the wrong ocean
-- a pattern's a pattern, not everything fits.
at the register: green apples, zucchini, lime popsicles
(there's a subway card in the other pocket.)

a pattern's a pattern, not everything fits,
I can write this. our names on the checks, the mailbox,
there's a subway card in the other pocket.
his mouth, the ocean. your voice on the machine.

I can write this: our names on the checks, the mailbox,
both our names, leave a message.
his mouth, the ocean, your voice on the machine.
so much blood. today is green. ginger ale. leaving.

both our names, leave a message:
I have a lover and something like a husband.
so much blood. today is green. ginger ale. leaving.
J says your confessions are overwhelming.

I have a lover and something like a husband.
we've never been a good idea.
J says your confessions are overwhelming.
if it weren't for metaphor, we'd never write anything.

we've never been a good idea.
to write this down – he says you write it all?
if it weren't for metaphor, we'd never write anything.
never trust a poet. so much blood.

to write this down – he says you write it all?
I wanted this we so long I got over the wanting
(never trust a poet. so much blood.)
and there you were. no roses. a cactus.

I wanted this we so long I got over the wanting.
write it: maybe I invented you
and there you were: no roses, a cactus.
if so, I want the keys back.

write it: maybe I invented you.
(take the trash out. change the sheets.)
if so, I want the keys back.
your hair, it's on everything.

take the trash out. change the sheets.
(missing Brooklyn, our slanted kitchen, your ankles.)
your hair, it's on everything.
don't ask me about his mouth.