When she carved the pumpkin
her hands sunk deep into it
and, as she scooped the flesh,
she thought of the ******–
how the face went soft,
yet wide-eyed and open-mouthed,
the stringy seeds spilling out
onto her dress
as she twisted the knife in;
his body thrusting forward
not expecting the delivery
or that she would fight back
and now a pile of damp pulp
on the old, wooden floor was
all that remained to be cleared
before the celebration–
her steady hand putting
flame to the candle
and placing the toothy head
in front of the house
as a beacon to those who
would come knocking
that night.

The next evening,
cicadas gave testimony
in their lazy accent—
your Judas kiss
from the dugout
next to Barb’s Burgers
under the periwinkle moon.

That empty ball field,
a barren beach.
Wind blowing red clay waves
over third base.

The summer air
weaving your breaths
into a scarf of deceit,
your hair in pony tail
until he slid
the band off,
releasing the bundle
of buff sea grass
down your neck.
The kiss, a shy,
soft shell crab
burying itself in the deep.

You’ll say “we need
to talk” but no.
My heart will drown
with the stars
you watched fall
into the black ocean
of last night’s sky
with him.

The hurdy-gurdy man’s monkey
snatched your only dollar
and you clapped

then turned on Thomas Avenue,
and scaled the front steps of
the brownstone.

Your lonely third floor silhouette
pouring a *** of tea
in one cup.

Lamp darkened like a stranger’s hope—
corroded fire escape
leading up.

He was born
desert frost,
a Kansas avalanche;
an impossibility
in her
life
posing as savage
fantasy
they both carried
under their
skin
like a virus fiend.

****** at midnight.
  Warm, crimson light
    against the
      Oldsmobile’s
        cold, steel skin.

Undercover crickets in
  a foggy 1962 field,
    screeching
      like white noise
        in the black gloaming.

Haggard men hoarding
  hate like rare coins
    pause for gasoline
      then churn dust
        from bald tires.

Tomorrow at the bank,
  the agency, the classroom,
    the factory, the church
      and the precinct
        they will call
          Jesus a friend.

Before the rains
I live in your skeleton
beneath the crust
of your unholy
mask
I breathe
in the dust
of powdered
heartbeats under
your chipped
*******
The spit from
your lips like
lava sears my
throat
I go inside you
as an serpent
enters the
desert sand
parched ******
blowing through
your
box
of
sticks