the endless fields of larkspur & lily;
the gentle sounds we make when we do not fear
being heard.

in some stolen moment, our backs blinding
against the sun; our mouths
sweetened ripe just like the things
we have not yet made;

a lightness made gossamer wings &
that place where we forget everything
but taking flight.

this whole of the aching sky & more,
the bounds beyond which we dare not or
have not yet touched.

& out of the blue,
ribbons of light,
a forgotten stream of honey, or love
that we have not yet made.

our bodies an offering; a
minute harvest summered &
reaped before we are able to see
what we have done.

from between her teeth
out the whole moon falls; i think
her smile foam-soft

and bright, curved gently
into my own. heart beats and
still in my chest sings

birdsong. nightingale,
choir paused; will i see you
again in daylight?

I think, I say, I loved you before -
yes. Picture it: these different
bodies, tangled under different
sheets, you & these quiet moments
before.

I think it started even before
that - right from the moment
you took breath & sobbed.
Don't you see, baby, you were born
mine.

Picture us in the light:
glory haloed, something other
than blood or water, violent
mouths & all teeth, gnawing
right to the bone.

Let me. I'm going to make this as
terrible as I know how.

I mould & ruin you with
these hands, I call you baby,
darling, mine, mine, mine;
I make you a god and nothing
less.

Show me again, my god - there is no
prayer for the way you shudder. Hold on,
wait for me,

I'm going to make you see stars, baby doll,
you're not going to wanna miss
this.

my god with bramble & lightning bugs
******* in his hair, he kneels with
brown earth palms pressed to the unquiet dirt
and hums a childhood melody.

my god with flowers on the riverbank,
ankles slick with mud & the dead things that lay just underneath. he whispers, how proud i am of you, how hard you tried, i hope you were full of love, i hope you loved, i hope you love —

my god with rosewater & candle wax,
watches me bless another girl with the softest kisses
a sinner can musterwipes my tears away with callouses
worn down gentle.

the light breaks.
there are no trumpets nor blood,
only his laugh lines beaming bronze in the sunlight.

tell me that dreadful story about the mayflies
& that burnt-out summer
we spent in the shadows of oak trees, our shoulders
raw & peeling.

everything had that sick patina of
“i loved you” in the sunslick light, where it was always
half-past some forgotten appointment.
no sense of urgency; no sighs;

no breath but what you’d give me.

i think it went something like this:
we go back to the lake with the tall grass & then i pull all the words right out of your open mouth. you’re not in love with me yet, but maybe you never were.

the fisherman on the next dock catches three carp and then a fourth, but by this time we’re already gone & i don’t see him teasing the hook from between their lips; don’t hear the wet
gasp of their fat bodies hitting the water.

okay, so let’s hear it your way.
the sky was hazy & so was your mind; maybe the heat
was getting to you. everything was sore & dark yellow,
so maybe i can’t blame you for squeezing a little too hard.

i take you down to the lake with the fish bones & i say something like
“i love you”, or maybe i make you say it first.
point is, i’m looking at you like i’m pulling teeth & someone
somewhere is hurting;

so maybe i can’t blame you for everything after.

you take me back to your grandmother’s garden & feed me heirloom tomatoes rolled in sugar; i kiss you with a dripping red mouth. the mosquito bites & blisters don’t bother us just yet, but that doesn’t mean you don’t draw blood.

you ask where it hurts & i say: here, here, here; so
quick i can hardly think, everything all sticky-sweet & unbearable.
you call me a liar, & i tell you to take anything, anything
you ever could’ve wanted, if you'd only just let it be me.

i.
Eve has hands like a wrecked garden: dirt caked under her fingernails, wild and vicious and thorn-covered; wild and sunstruck and crawling. She presses her palms into the grass underneath the orchards and prays a blasphemy.

ii.
This is how it goes: there is always a boy, or maybe a snake. There is a time before, with the darkness so whole and absolute it chokes, and there is a time after, with burning light and shame so heavy it puts you on your knees.
This is how it goes: your summerborn cheeks flushed but your eyes cold and barren and wintered.
This is how it goes: you are made from bones that never settled into the earth.

iii.
The apples hanging from the trees have gone nearly overripe and heavy, bending from the boughs and flushed red.
Eve has a mouth sticky-sweet and soft, a body like a rosebush in bloom.
Eve has a bird's nest of hair that calls home only vultures.
This is how it goes: there is always a hunger for more.

iv.
Eve presses her palms against the planes of her stomach, against the soft curves the moon has smoothed onto her.
Eve presses her palms into the grass and howls: *"I will not bear you fruit."

you remember, baby?
summer nights where the cicadas screamed
until they were loved & our heads felt like
eggs they cracked on the asphalt to prove a point.

aspirin & coke.

your body the puzzle I left unfinished
in july.

i.

Baby's got those California dreamin' eyes that
are just two shades left of San Jose and just as sand soft.
He's got those Brooklyn lips
muddling sugar cubes and bourbon and bright red
cherry stems, all shy smiles in a West Side bar this short of
profane, and oh, you burn.

ii.

Flyers and missing posters:
My name, your mouth.
If found, please call.

iii.

He wipes me off the picture frames with
cold water and vinegar.
I leave my fingerprints everywhere:
on wine glasses and cigarette butts,
takeout menus and the window
leading to the fire escape.

this is my way of saying I am still here.
this is my way of desperate you will not forget me,
your hands still know me,
my name still lingers on your tongue --
but he still cleans the frames and
locks the window and
goes to sleep in a bed
I have never spent the night in.

i. before this the trees were alight & the hardwood was tracked with mud. down at the riverbank i embrace a golem made living flesh. her skin when she touches me leaves silt & grief. i grab both of her hands and call this the world. i grab both of her hands and drown them in the river.

ii. this softest horror that creeps in my bones, it begs of me to listen
& i do -

cause: you call me pretty. you beg me to sit in your open palm. you cover my eyes. sloppily, with your fingers. you tell me to be still. you hold me still. you hold my breath. you hold a knife to my throat. it’s not a knife. i’ve told this story before. it’s not a knife.

effect: you call me pretty.
you gut me like a fish.

iii. the stone-girl who lives inside the mirror & begs for scraps asks me how to go home. the showerhead screams. the girl has my eyes but only when i’m not blinking. she has no hands. i say nothing. someone is screaming. she hangs her head in her hands. the water is too hot. the lights keep blinking. i feel everything & nothing. she says nothing, and somehow it is worse.
nausea.
nausea.
nausea.

ad nauseaum.

iv. the house does not fall apart but it is a close thing. the roof is leaking. everything is covered in dust. i fill my cupped hands to overflowing & the first layers of dirt chip away. i pry them apart & open. i put my wrists on right-side up. i excavate. i perform with or without anaesthesia. the girl claps. i take a bow.

v. the wind smells clean & of wet earth. i dig up the body in the front yard. my/her hands tug dandelions out of the grass.

we lay in silence.

our hands touch,
flinchless.