I ONLY WANT HIM WHEN HE SMELLS LIKE WHISKEY & CAMELS
When he's just steel plucked
new calluses into his fingers.
I want to jar every chord that blooms
into the next room on only
neurons, spit, and calcium. I can't get
enough of it. I wanna fuck him
to the reverb. Conduct his symphony.
Bud from the demise. I wanna sip soft
morning light from his pale
champagne eyelids. Lick the sleep
from his poppy fields. It makes me so moonlit
forgetful, daffodil laughter dripping
pink and canary from my blackberry
winter lips. I only want
him in hollowed halls, when he's
void-shaped and I'm plasma
untouchable. I'm a drunk, and he's a wet
glass of gin. We fit together in ways I don't
think other people ever have.
What a beautiful morning
to leave on the porch bulb, light a
cigarette, pour his ghost a glass,
and flourish in fitful lunacy.
WHAT THE AFTERMATH MIGHT HAVE LOOKED LIKE HAD I NOT STEPPED OUT OF THAT CAB
In this poem, the cab pulls up
to the Holiday Inn. The Australian
gets out, finds an American
woman who will actually fuck him.
The girl uses her mouth,
tells the driver, Keep going.
The groom from the second-floor
bachelor party sleeps alone
the night before his wedding,
dick flaccid, hands statuesque.
The girl, safely home, sheds
her white and marigold dress
to moonlight instead of up
against morning's brash knuckles.
She folds it into the trash with
the last handful of her adulterous
ex's guitar picks, hazel
clippings—not because they are
spoiled. She has simply
outgrown them. This is the poem
where she does not wilt in the end.
She blossoms helianthus
from her chasmed canary throat.