deer,
entangled,
deer with antlers touching,
us with horns,
hand in ochre hand
an ampersand.

you,
wearing the crown,
deer with antlers touching,
one head hanging
on,
you pull away
and im still here;
I end at the neck.

Are you home?
I want to beg you to sleep with me,
touch my hair,
my cheeks.
I don't think
you want me like I want you.

I want to say goodbye first this time,
can i hang up the phone on the giving end?
smash it down,
no ****** fingers or wincing.
If I cared less I could
i would've forgotten your name already,
if i could.
love is a wreck, always.
that's what it means, to be in pieces.

to love to absolute
                                              *******
pieces.

Closet cold,
no closure in the dark,
I wait and wait
in silence,
for some kind of
curtain call.

The dog sighs at my feet,
asleep rolling eyes around,
does anyone
see me at all

And would it matter

A pair of shorts,
two cord strings entangled
and the pattern
my mother's hands shook
gently
to draw;
cities,
a landscape,
a cross.
"I have no eye for art,"
she'd say,
but my mother's hands
made something for him, a husband,
The Husband,
and he wore them for a while.
Perhaps childish,
the colours slightly faded,
maybe her devotion
embarrassed,
I don't know,
but he pushed them to the back
of the cupboard in a corner of their
bedroom.

My mother is unhappy,
she doesn't know it,
or why,
but maybe it has something to do with
those shorts on the shelf
collecting dust.