chase you into the west wing and
lock your ghost into a room
conveniently located inside my fingertips.
do not let anyone see, do not let her
see, do not speak
of the specter pacing. forget
the room, forget the finger tips,
dead weight, a phantom limb, you still
fuck me with her hand sometimes and hold me
with her body sometimes and possessed,
i wake guilty.
it has been a year and i have done
pretty well biting my tongue.
crawl away with my lion woman, dappled with freckles.
warm love, good love, easy like honey.
i have been holding my words like
fumbling stacks of firewood,
in my dreams we are burning,
we are boiling.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
you're waiting to hear about the windows
in the farmhouse
you used to dream of
and if the saran wrap proved true during the rainstorm.
if something has
leaked in or leaked out, if the mist is trapped
inside the glass
or just hanging on your stoop like
my fingers are longer now so i
wear more rings to weigh them down,
to the opposite wall again,
a one sided conversation
directed at the bedroom.
she treats me well, kisses me straight,
and that is good, stalking the property line like
"this will do just fine."
perhaps we cannot smell blood this time because
no one is bleeding
and that is good.
your soft safe canopy love,
is it everything you dreamed
when you were young?