somewhere in my
treasure cove
I've taken you
out of my mouth,
aligned you to the
pulps of my lips
and have begun to whisper
to you, all of the ways you've
made me
pulse.

i have forgotten
that i am all sharp
edges with blunt
letters, that these
arrows are shot
with arcs but
s
t
i
c
k
in the ground,
sometimes I fancy
myself honey but
I am all vinegar
all salt, no soothe.

he swore
he didn't
have a gun
and then he went
and shot himself in the
head.

see,

when I listen
to the smiths I
see you instead
of Morrissey and
you are all golden
apple glow with a
crisp blue profile
a stark outline
against the
saturated
red fade
the mic
cupped in
between those
grand fingers
like a steel face.
how silly to
know you
never sang.

oh but we are all
divine in that we
have souls, the
way that fills
my mouth
is stupendous
they say that
your fingertips
can feel nano-scale
wrinkles on a smooth
surface, a new level of
sensitivity not previously
recorded and I think that is



beautiful.

he said
he missed my voice
as though it was the only
one he ever listened
to.

i put traffic
cones around
my body, pull
my own rug
out from
                                         under
me,
ten pounds
like an anvil
on a string,
153.43

tell me about the last
time he ate raspberries
off your fingertips, the
last time he stuck his
hands beneath your
bra just to keep warm
the last time he made
you apple cider in the
**** summer heat,
but it's fall and you
miss his sweat, his
bad breath, his
distaste for
sweet things
that you a l w a y s
forgot, and the kiwi
body wash that sat in
his shower, you've been
saying Jesus Christ lately
and you want to stop, but then
again, you still want to be the kind
of girl he might come back to.