Knowing you, I am like a girl who willfully touches hemlock to her tongue. For among the boney noose of pearls strung up my spine, you, with hands that can hold both knives and violin bows leak a piece of air into the streams of my back And I let you—I let it fever its way around stringy tethers, up to the oven of blood in my head while you lick your lips (the moon pours out) and I do not watch this because now I cannot even trample across floors of lemongrass or brace the line of my jaw for a tender fist. The earth simply throws a plump tomato at my chest smirks simmering in its oceans but all I can do is fall there lay near lose years expire here— (the sodden match) (the hot scoop of iced cream) while the froth of my heart grows cold and colder.
So I can’t even smash your head (a skull I love) into the wooden wall until it is as soft as a boiled pomegranate. For my own flesh is a puddle of sputters on the kitchen table ready for you to eat *(dine, my darling, dine!)