See, I am  looking
for the best lay
of the land,

between two hillsides
beyond concrete, asphalt,
where

there are only
red dirt roads
few tire tracks,

a place of birdsong
gut laughter,

hard work.

I saltened my lips of you, wore brown for days and tried to blend to the earth of my skin. I wore blue lips and combed my hair pencil thin. I painted my lungs red and lathered in the Puritan flow that warmed between my legs to the bitten taint of your neck. I killed your soul with my ashing hands. You said she ruined your life, you say I ended yours by hanging you from the hem of my skirt without ever saying a word.

Her chest rose and fell as she slept,
the black sheets draped over her hips,
her arms folded over her face,
taking a nap in outer space.
I laid next to her,
awake and breathless.
The cat at our feet seemed unable
to grasp the importance of the moment.
Instead she spread her paws, yawned.
For the cat and my love
this is just a lazy evening, another nap,
for me
it is everything.

With  fly rod in hand
grampa slowly walks up the hill.

I search my hair for ticks because  
cousin Charlie said your **** stands

a chance of falling off if one
bites you in the fall of the year.

Gramma’s hands
shades her eyes as she squints

from the screened-in porch
toward grampa, he is on his knees,

gramma’s arms
fall and she runs;

this will probably be my last trip
to the loch with my grandparents.

And maybe I was born
With this feeling at home in my bones.
This weight
This constant thought
That I am not
Enough.

Or maybe it's a
Poison.
Trapped in my veins from the first time I was
Bitten
By words far sharper than my
Thick skin
Could handle.

So I am stuck.
Between the notion that I am a forest
Rooted in sorrow
Or a
Patient
Waiting for exsanguination
So that the poison is pushed out
And I can begin to
Flow
Again.

he moons his pale flesh against the hologram of my liquored tongue as my right ankle shed's red wine from my bones to my flesh, my marrow is hush-puppy-tan to the pulse, and as to the likes of you, blue satin-ed and confused, your love's blonde blunted curls crowd your cellophane lungs and you breathe in the smoke of her, pale toned and honest, just the way you fry them, quick and in hot oil. I wonder of she teases you with her soft lips like I could, but I suppose we'll never really know.