I saw a man
walking up to a cart
full of empties
and wondered:

will he walk
along side it
like it’s his first love
or push it
like it’s a new born
and I wondered
which is really
sadder

dad,
build a chapel
with her bedroom’s burnt floor
and mourn every February
for her.

I can see the shadow
from her window
reflecting in your eyes and
the matches she lit
in your therapy.

has the ash on her body
from that night
come off your fingers yet?

I will continue to shed skin
until I remind you
nothing of her.

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

I'm not in the mood to write a poem
I'd rather look at you, I'd rather read you
Your body is poetry!* I can't challenge that
I'd rather not break my darling gaze
You are the most beautiful poem yourself