bipolar, brass knuckle baby,
pretty eyed prince of el paso:
i've listened to you weep in
spanglish

and i would wade through that
river of dead women just to feel
closer your grandmother, that
oval faced polaroid girl who knew
her birthright and had the grip
strength to take it.

[WENDIGO]**

SHE WILL KISS THE MONSTER YOU HAVE BECOME— SLIDE HER TONGUE INTO THE THICKETS OF YOUR MOUTH, HEEDLESS TO THE INEVITABILITY OF CUTTING HER STRAWBERRY LIPS ON THE SERRATED BLADES OF YOU TEETH. SHE IS SUMMER AND YOU ARE THE SNOWCONE SHE ***** DRY.

BOY OF DRY LEAVES AND DEAD GIRLS: YOU STILL TASTE GOOD WITH HER BLOOD ON YOUR CHIN.

i have watched the tectonic plates of your
personality shake and shift under the shadows
of your eyes for seven years now.

you are the child in a perpetual state of rebirth,
and i am the mother who weeps and mourns
and breaks dishes like a poltergeist.

i want to
tuck songs
behind your
ear like loose
hair because
it's the only
way i can
tell you
how i
feel.

your chest was heavy with the need to leave;
your head sick with the things you hadn't seen.

but you're glad you stayed, even if it was just to see
everything that you've ever loved laid to waste,
slow and ugly.

no city can unravel you like that population sign
of eight hundred and thirty-nine.

I WILL FIND THE MEN WHO HURT YOU AND I WILL TEAR THEM APART: I WILL SATE THE DEPTHS OF THE STILL SEA'S STARVING
BELLY WITH THEIR BROKEN BODIES.

**** WITH MY FAMILY AND YOU WILL
KNOW THE TASTE OF YOUR BLOOD.
IT WILL BE THE LAST THING YOU TASTE.

i can't shake the feeling
of being watched, even
in the dark lonely space
of my kitchen.

i've taken to wedging a
knife between my
mattress and box-spring.

he says
he doesn't know
who i am half the time,
but he calls me baby
like he's mine.

I HEARD SOMEONE SAY
THAT BRUISED KNUCKLES
WILL ALWAYS LOOK BAD
WHILE HOLDING A
CHAMPAGNE FLUTE;

I WONDER THEN HOW YOURS
CAN LOOK THIS GOOD
WHILE HOLDING MY WAIST.

i know how this will end.
i will sneak into your apartment
before the cops arrive. i will take
one of your shirts from the hamper,
your blanket off the bed, and sleep
wrapped up in both every night
until i remember how to
dream without you.

i didn't learn
the lessons you
taught me until
you were already
gone.

i've spent many nights
waiting out storms, folded
away in my bathtub—

on the night that bullets
shredded through our
drywall, we held each
other there.

it reminded me of wind
and summer sirens and
the arms of my mother.

when they drilled
into bone and sutured
my gums shut, i didn't think
about how the antiseptic didn't go that deep:
all i thought about was that
my face is just blood,
tired muscle,
and bone.

i will never close my mouth
to your table scrap i love you's.

you only keep me around for
that leashed dog loyalty:

like a mutt at your feet, all that
matters is that you don't kick me.

SCARY SOUTHSIDE
SWEETHEART.

LAZY SPLIT
LIPPED KISSES OVER A
MOUNTAIN DEW AND
A POWDERED DONUT
DINNER FOR TWO.

phase one:
the crowds part for him, and something
inside you does too; followed by your lips,
followed by your thighs. you utter his name
in your empty apartment just to feel its
weight on your tongue. he scares you.

phase two:
he still scares you but you've moved things
around to make room for the fear. you give
it a bed. you give it his name. you feed it.
you realize all at once that you could love
him, and you are breathless with relief that
you don't. but you could, just like you could
hit the gas instead of the brakes and plunge
into a ravine. on the road and then in the
river just that fast.

phase three:
you're in the river. you wonder if you were
ever really on the road. you think maybe you
can live like this, just like you thought you could
breathe underwater when you were four or so.
exhaling is fine, it's easy, but on inhale you flood
your lungs. he isn't what you needed, he is the
water choking you, but it's not his fault you don't
have gills. it isn't his fault you hit the gas instead
of the brakes.