what if we could write on the stars
the way we write with paper and pen?
in that case,
i would be writing love letters every night
for a pretty soul too far away.
i'd point my finger at the sky
and trace it delicately,
then you would go outside at night
the evening breeze would whisper "look up!"
and the constellations would tell of the love
an admirer sends to you by cosmic delivery
across distances of time and reality,
from a world much different from yours.

Oh, the sheep have fangs!
   They have buried them
   within my fickle flesh!

They tear and gnaw until
   I am, to the bone, broken.
Woe to me!

love
if
you
want to
take me
to
my grave
still
i
want to quarry her

-- when I have the tenderness of a writhing dragon,
he will paint flowers across my throat

as though to remind me that fires are indelicate,
and that I writhe in a prison made of open space.
-- this man will not smother me with his skin
when we sleep.
-- this man will unhinge the door of my mouth,
and kiss out the bullets stuck under my tongue.
                                                                ­               ---
whatever thousandth day I awaken beside this man,
realizing I have become the flowers he painted
across my throat, by braving my throat,

I will, unchaining myself from the draconic worry,
bring him his coffee in bed, with a smile.