We're a shuffled deck of cards
and while I play these games in the dark light of my bedroom
the tree branches reach through glass
and scrape down my soft, fragile womb
marked in three slashes in the sign of the devil.
We are twirling in a  sea of
romantic era art songs
written off of clouds and
20th century paintings of eyes
in the sky.
We meant to go right
veer right
swerve right
but wrong is the way the storm has pushed us.
Floating on rooftops
I am waving my pale arms
pleading for help
I try to map out the swells of tides in my chest
with chains of rusty necklaces
handed down from my ancestors
who would shake their **** heads
if they could see the effort I throw into
waking each new, bright morning
filled with crowing doves
that follow me like i resemble an angel carcass
in a world of dreamy humans
climbing down the street
under a ceiling of umbrellas
engulfing ****** features
i        used        to       identify     you.