Rain and Honey
The sky outside is a colander of light; while I lie in this tangle of lime bright hair. The tv burns
the smoke from the room, the American voice out loud & mind bound. I write your goodbye
kaleidoscopes of times, the paper wears thinner than winter air. You lie
in the body of yourself and I can almost recall a bigger hand on my thigh
than the one now, now the body curled to my form is closer to my own, the small fingers,
mouth soft & sharp. it tastes of bourbon. I reveal my teeth, the animal in my skin
rolls over and over. I almost am empty of you, I dream of your stomach bulging ugly over the lip of your jeans.
I wake and you split like an average blind date. I wonder in passing if you're growing fat
or lethal without me, if your mouth pools with liquor, if you're lying limp cocked and sweaty. But without you
I expand, a universe flat & infinite, green girl across the table at darbar, K gazing at zazza
at my vodka-glazed eyes, speaking of love & love & love. I start wearing makeup again, clothes that clutch my skin.
The threat feels far, the wolf asleep on the warmed tar. Gone, man is the moon, and I
the snail shell uncurling in his hefty gaze. What has been taken is found & among them my body
numbers many. Again my hair grows light and long. In the evenings I walk home, one figure safe & one alone.