Friday, March 31, 2017

i had a dream you died.

i screamed
at the memorial, collapsed, crumbled, i was wearing a 
Disney T-shirt and 
nag champa incense permeated the room. it was half 
opium den and half high school
auditorium and
moratorium and your face plastered on projector, aromatic haze, the kind of breathing
which is not breathing, the kind of nightmare
without monsters.

they carried me out,
a drunken party guest,
a mourning village,
a room full of strangers, 
and me, tearing my clothes,
a weeping stranger.

Friday, March 24, 2017

what can be said about the heavy snow and conversations 
weighted on eyelashes?
what can be said about the red stripe scar of forgiveness 
and how it itches with the healing, 
how it aches with the changing of the seasons and
how it burns, still, of course.

relearn how to rehold hands like a language 
grown rusty without use, feel the way the tongue fumbles 
over words. 
how new love 
is a combination of old love
rearranged into new shapes. 

how i introduce my eyes to a pair of folded
round glasses on the bedstand, 
how i know it is arriving, 
how i knew it must.

Friday, March 17, 2017

her knuckles are always dry and cracked
from too much washing.
i rub lotion into them and whisper
about lakes and mountains and the process of 
being so wet that you become the water. tell her
"you make me so wet that i become the water"
before sneaking back into the night, too scared to expose 
my carapaces, these baby teeth, this
shell, cracked. 
i worry 
she would not want to 
crawl inside, whisper
"i want you to crawl inside"

she makes me sign a contract in her own blood to 
spend the night, spread across her stomach, finger marks
on the inside of thighs and she signs her letters as
with no name, 
just love
with no name.

Friday, March 3, 2017

it's like
someone pulled the carpet out from me except 
the floor is also made of carpet.
i string together 12 of my babyteeth and call it 
a necklace, promise it'll keep you safe
and i nest in the spaces between your
baby, every single step, you're gonna
take me

everything tastes like a starburst, tastes like blue raspberry
slushies and old books and it's all
filled with so many 
goddamn honeybees
and goddamn popsicles
and goddamn fireworks
and goddamn riverways
and other things 
that keep me up at night, 
you keep me up at night.

the cardiologist

it's like i 
swallowed 10 matches and you're holding the 11th 
right against my throat
and the smile is caught like a cough and i 
don't trust these ropes. don't trust the ladder of the ribs
pushing through your back.
you're tracking my pulse, you're listening with 
stethoscope to sternum
for your own voice
echoing in the atrium, hiding in aorta,
don't lie to me,
you hear it beat.

your hands are like
CPR and your mouth is 
2 CCs of adrenaline straight to my collar bone, 
you kiss the shell of my ear and press 
yours against my heart, press
your paddles and

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

play the game where you are wolf and i am
play the game where my fingers are made of sharks and
you are a holy
mess between your legs, Virgin Mary- i am
cumming and you are coming
over to touch the softest parts of me. jesus fuck, twisting
arteries like hair in fist, twisting fist like manually
jump-starting a pulse. jesus
when i was in catholic school i used to 
look up at the big jewel windows, 
think about the holy water pooling into my hand and how
you could make something to worship out of me. jesus fuck,
how i cock back your jaw and how you 
take me in your mouth like communion. jesus, i am
baptized into this fucking, i am devoured and beheaded and kneeling
kneeling in front of you, 
take my head
for your silver plate.