Sometime late January,
you spent the night with a woman
watching the moon grow.
Come take me in my own abattoir.
I’m red-hot and full of other people.
I had created a dalliant Beirut in my bed
to occupy us.
You were outside in a corduroy jacket that smelled like me
counting her freckles as stars
and I was slicing the inside of someone’s arm
to crawl inside for warmth and wait for us
to duel it out in the morning;
I was biting the inside of my cheek to taste
victory and she was on top of you,
I had been waiting to show you
you had been waiting with
kerosene and some promises
to hold my ashes