(Let's pretend we are off the stage, the shadows have reached our bellies, the rest of us will be eaten soon enough).

These are my memories, like a noir film,
of you pressing my unwant down further
into my throat. You spoke too soon of a
happy ending where there could be none; there
are too few songs between us and I never even
enjoyed your ****** music. When I think back
to those sullen years, do my fingers tremble?
You can be assured they do. Two roads diverged;
the one less traveled (I thought I took it) and yet,
to find, in reality they had been worn down just
the same. I no different

from my mother who tried so very hard to
escape--to burst colorsong out of her breast.