It’s true she’s been cleaning her closets.
Sweeping was never her favorite, but
Her fingers have been caressing
The handle of a broom for some time,
Chipping splinters and flinching at
Closed doors.

It’s true she cried when dust
Bloomed from hinges unmoved.
It melted black down her cheeks
And has stayed there since.

It’s true she’s been walking alone,
Trailing her splinter-laden nails and
Wading through sunshine.
Night is cold but closets are colder;
She wraps up in city sounds furred
By the dark and billowing like smoke
And thinks only I know my body now.

It’s true she could have stayed fondling
Brooms and dreaming of housewives
Straining bellies with chunks of aorta
And muttering songs over the dishes:
Il m’a attaché à ton lit/
Une jolie petite pute soumis.
But the throat sticks, the tune
Tasting worse by the day and
There is hope in an empty closet.

It’s true she’s been trembling less
With the world’s turning.
Winter has let go her hair and slumps
On her back with a chilly satisfaction
But she wipes the fog from her
Eyes and whispers to her flesh:
*Swallow your heart
Relish the burning
And watch spring blooms turn to jasmine.

do not spoon sweet between her lips;
only string her from barbs left behind
by the trawl of tongues
in her throat, yours
And yours too.
tuck her in and leave her marred,
metal-mouthed
and dreaming of matadors

In New Mexico,
My toes never tasted the red mud they
Craved. Four souls in a ton of tin
chased storms
Dreaming of warpaint but
I only breathed dust.
I ran at everything with twitching fingers
and choked on dry lightning
that tasted like highway tar and ***** *****
futilities
But I licked my lips and asked for more.

These days I reach
For everything, mindless
Of the hole in my finger.

What is one more opening,
exposing new flesh to light?
I am hoarding my scars like gold.

These days I reach for
Everything.

These days my fingers
Tremble with verbs.
And smell like matches.
They’re useful for picking
The Paint from my hair
The Past from my heart
And my soul from the floor.

I am not usually frugal but
I hand you guilty slips of the fingers
Niggardly.
It is wartime and I am rationing touch.
I chew the pen you gave me; do I
Taste you?
Do you see my tongue and wish
I would lay it hot to your flesh, burning
Excuses in stealth-sweetened luxury?

You tell me I know it's wrong
and I feel good.
It feels good,
your resolve slipping through my fingers.
So, here's your lips.
Here’s your hand, tumbling in aerials.
Here’s my horizon opening, mouth broadening in
silent gasps and she’s there, love, the other room.
I’m falling please God not “for”
So stop saying my name so low
once, twice (I hush you)-
phrase unfinished.
Rumbling ellipses drip onto my tongue.
Get your voice out of my ear.
Pick up your lips.
Fold up your fingers, hastily,
Because there’s a taste rising
in the back of my throat at seeing
what you dredged from my ocean floor.
It is hell, it sweet
To taste possibility on new lips
Once the thrill of unfamiliarity
has been rubbed off hers.

Yes,
I know it’s wrong.

I'd like to know the sum of your parts,
Palm a heady discontinuity and mouth
The loam below your womb not wanted.
I have kiln hands; be clay for me, boy.
I glaze my fingers for you, sitting at home
And pumping my bellows,
Lips loved by one and
Hair petted by one other.