Sour
Double-jointed broomstick
with elbows and a dust
stare, the man leans over
his knees to tell me
everything, his voice, dry
white noise starching the room:
time squared, solitude or
new words for solitude
like wanderlust. A bird's
nest filling with water,
thirteen months away from
home like stations of the cross.
As he speaks, the moon rasps
against the cold bricks and
I think, I am going
to suffer for this. The
buzzard in my belly
scavenges and a hard voice
exits my throat a struggle.
If I were my body, I'd run like hell.
Blue Scissors
Whiskeyed and out of season I
slither the living room like a
flatfish with flared nostrils. The gauche
barricade of stripped furniture
and moving boxes separate
the yours from the mines and for twenty-
one days I open our door to be
greeted by dust, a fusty mood
rust reminder of what's just junk
now. Today I stand on heroin
toes and secrete a slow motion
on anything not strapped in duct tape.
A filigree of stale smoke stains
the wall in the shape of the Madonna.
I cross myself twice in the hall.
I find a scrap note from you. The
blue scissors are yours, but they're nestled
in a box with the soft folds
of my crocheting and makeup
brushes. Their arms of sharp skin are
syringe placeholders, and sun wedges
through the space in the bent cardboard
flaps, bounces off the clean metal,
winks like typhus, smiles like famine.
You will get them back, my dear.
On my way out I will carefully
insert them between your shoulder blades.
Boys I Like IV
(this one was bound to happen)
Bathing in quicksand we scrap our course skin
off from the bone, shed ashy cocoons, and
sink deeper. Your sage lips like a spellbook,
you are all brown mouth and pout licking
my belly. You are eating the infected
leftovers of my skin, what has taken
me more than a quarter of a century
to fester and fold into perfect ugliness.
I like this, all this vibration and lethargy.
You like the strangled promises collapsed
in the corner.
In this room we're broken-
legged and pasted to the center
of the night'a liquid planet and a
pillbox moon. The sound of razorblades
on starlight sinks, sinks,
sinks.
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