She hides her Bible underneath the ****** box
because he doesn't want to have kids,
but she still prays
for his keep
every night
after he pulls long wings
from her back to her ribs—
deep passion inscriptions and hieroglyphs
with his nails as she whispers fake, unholy phrases.

She tripped into his superstition
watching him fashion his weapon—
a rosary noose
to choke blessings and psalms
out of her throat.
He rarely remembers to say goodnight,
but she traces his eyelids once he's asleep

like crop circles
making a thin bridge over his nose
connecting pinpoint constellations.
She kisses his neck and chest
over and over again,
secretly hoping
he wakes up and puts his arm around her.

She paints in the basement
with an old light bulb
listening to the hum of the space heater,
gagging on the acrylic fumes,
because he thinks all art
is useless
and all power is manmade confidence,
and the stars are just coincidence,
and he only married her
so they could ****,
finally.
Sometimes he doesn't come home,

but she makes the bacon the way he likes it,
and she presses all of his shirts twice.

I loved him.
And sometimes,
he loved me as well.

You used to count your French fries.

One-by-one you made them disappear in a puff of smoke
like a secret slight-of-hand artist,
all the while keeping track of each one,
tucked into your sleeves and inside pockets
so that, in the final gut-wrenching act,
you could bring them all back.

For too long
it was a magic show
with no audience.

In the past months I have watched the show evolve.
No more smoke and mirrors,
or misdirection.
The final act has been cut.
By all accounts the show is much less exciting,
more commonplace.

But I still count.
Every single one.
And silently applaud each now-you-see-it, now-you-don't.

Because I know that the hardest trick,
the mark of a true master,
is making them disappear for good.

timing
the time’s arch nemesis
they’ll wrestle intention to the ground
a point on a circle always comes back round
i want to rename love
a word that has a
tick
tock
click to it
a gentle slap at the beginning and the end of it
once upon a flash of skin
lightning rose up from below the waist, within
and the quick
boom
bang
spite of it
we both know where this will lead
a clock tower’s shadow ahead of you and me
the face is round, honesty will plead
and the point will be reached again
at the dot
spark
round
embark of it

I speak in rhymes
But my love is divine.
And if you don't mind
Let's go beyond the lines.
Forget about the dimes.
My love will make you shine.

I had another "episode"
they start off quiet
and numbing
I can't process or speak
then I am consumed with rage
white knuckles and gritting teeth
this transitions into violence
hitting, kicking, etc
(I think I threw my keys at you,
but I can't remember)
which is then all concluded
with uncontrollable sobbing
smeared makeup on your shirt
and phone calls from the neighbors
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