Tuesday, April 25, 2017

terra preta

the dogs, the dogs,
tiny rips to the bottom of my stomach and i know
enough not to trust anything that does not immediately
come with bared teeth.
the problem is
you come immediately with bared teeth
and it does not frighten me.
i know what it is to be bitten.

like an apple, baby,  i guess this means you have taken something
from inside of me.
intimacy as a civil war, which is to say 
that i care enough to revolt.
we sit on your bed and eat cake, 
     the city
     burns outside.

you like girls who are easy to swallow,
malleable in mouth, ones who melt on your tongue.
consumed, glittering,
i know enough to keep you hungry,
even if it means i also starve.
the villagers in rebellion, 
our fingertips caked with ash, 
manna and rain water, terra preta, 
find me buried with fish bones 
and charcoal
in your backyard, let me in through the screen door 
and wash the mud off with your hair, 
     terra preta
     dead soil turned fertile
     by hands.

i am good at broken things,
have i warned you of this?
     i am not a garden.
     i am a maelstrom,  
do you know what i do?
i come back from the dead.

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