cancers always come back.
I heard you like bad girls.
(What if no one’s the killer & no ones the martyr?)
I drove through ghosts and all of middle Earth
to get here;
to lean into the sharp points
of middle hurts.
the difference between you and I
are only a couple stealth instruments
but we both murder with force,
with words that creep down the esophagus
in the middle of the night,
rupture guts and my stomach turns in half
like a huge, hungry mouth
folding from the pressure
investigating old sutures with her incisors
voraciously eating itself.
i’m trying self-immolation since the recovery
stalking your shadow,
waiting for high noon,
marauding around the Conoco station with
two kinds of Plan B in my pocket:
one for the inevitable fetus to follow and
one for you and I to cut in half and swallow
when you make your decision
and I’m the one that gets to record the way
it felt to watch you dragged to the altar
that foreboding day.
I wish had more words for
i’m the paper bell you inspected,
glued glitter hearts all over,
licked like an envelope being set somewhere else
and ultimately flung from the shelf
before she had time to prosper.
in true poet’s parlance
i’m nothing but death: soot palms, a trash can full of
one pen, colossal regret,
charcoal-colored romance with the
murdered children to accentuate my
kamikazes are lazy,
(give him the truth)
you have to stand in your wreckage,
own your slaughter.
makes more sense to avoid the fumes and
blood-orange sting that the flashy
(give him the teeth)
i’m your match.
(give him that spark)
there’s nothing left of me
so I become the portending light
and you become the ashes.
Prayers for all the girlfriends and wives: may they never ever see this and may they never ever meet me.
You had a dream where you
and I accidently gave birth to
Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick.”
When you told me, we laughed
and tried not to think anymore about it.
You took me by the roots to force my head down:
forced me to look at my part
with the last man.
An estuary of first thoughts and
what color is that bruise?
Forced life into this ossuary,
forced me to take progestin,
forced me to give birth to nothing but a long
dictionary of underused adjectives and
nothing ever sticks.
The paper was lined with my hurried tonic of
spite and estrogen and sealed with your
brusque argument against it.
There’s an elusive whale swimming up creek:
it’s as real as my infertility
so we both ignore it.
I want a reason to hate my God
so I take dried root every morning and watch you
drain from me.
Once there was a man more red than you,
brute who nailed me to my second thoughts
so when it comes to plans,
I’m a cool maiden:
blood like blue streams,
less baneful than a forest flame,
slice a wrist and
flood you every dream.
You’re somewhat capricious so I don’t know where to step
without igniting some nursed rage.
Smother me with pillows and rubber muzzles
or feel my blistered lips press back.
Here’s your David Lynch film:
me, arms wide open to show you
some purple lipstick and matching leggings,
some urn I worship on my neck,
some witch to hang,
some lighter fluid & cum flambé.
Sometime after dark we learn what it means to trust
one big whale we can’t touch.
You said not to worry: we don’t crackle,
not like piles of leaves,
we suddenly spark,
like the tainted breath of a relapse
when you thought you were pretty good:
starts with a lie about feelings,
starts with two kids who just can’t get enough
so they try laboring books but it’s
and now they’re swallowing everything they can get their hands on
and end up in urns that swing
from their beloved crusade’s throat.
Your moon is black and old:
hanging crooked like a forgotten family portrait,
dusted only by passing shoulders every now and then,
but mostly sits like a shrug.
Don’t worry, you fume.
I wait for the flare.
You assure me it’s contained.
City burns a dull gray,
muted mahogany shapes,
and you cough cinder.
I stay because you assured me:
you don’t blaze it all away.
And I, arms open, confirm
I’m ready to swallow you.
I’m big and blue and
cool as lake.
I’m the whole ocean:
looking for a fish
I already ate.
“the book of us”