The black
overtakes iris,
I scatter all writing across the room,
digging for notes
on the next chapter,
and outside
bluebirds sing
while ants crawl on their wings,
new babes suckle,
while mama texts another,
and inside--
a madhouse,
an oven--
always on,
always 425;
no respite--
her skin
invites
like late night
milk
and
she gleams
sharpened front teeth,
presents
30 poems-a-day
of **** teenage poetry--
"love me,
like you did in the beginning,
love me free"
and I stockpile
the pages
for my calendar-approved
pyre--
6 more days
and I'll let
this darkness
bend
to fire.