We can live together on
the hardwood floors of
my parents’ house, stay
up late, eating apples, and
sifting through pomegranate
sludge. Your beard will be
sticky, and my fingertips will
be cinnamon sugared, like
some candied catharsis,
and you can lick them clean.

Little infant Icarus, I will
turn you into constellations.
Rip you apart, spread you
across the sky, and pray hard
for clear nights.
Oh! the terrible things.
I make no apologies for
laughter in churches.
I am the forrest floor, and
I am a burning hill, and

I will not die for you.