We were well enough the first time
she admitted casually that
she would watch me die if someone
else would take the shot.

                                              We got to
second base (or shortstop)
way before we started counting
and recorded our accomplishments
on napkins, but forgot
to wash our hands before we ate,
before we fought,
before we cried.

                              Her name was
"who cares," mine was "I might,"
her approach to mathematics
was a parrot in a snowstorm:
plain to see, but out of place and
hard as hell to understand for those
who cared enough to try.

Satan shook a chill
into a twenty-pack of cigs
and bound his men
into inferno-fastened rigs.

Everything stood still
until the farmer let the pigs
into the pen
and sold his penmanship to pigs.

Firecrackers spark and sputter,
ashes land like comets; cupid
spits his venom hard and fills a
pool below the bridge before we
jump.
           Another castle in a
different part of France, another
broken-looking chair to hold my
broken-looking back. I told your
kids to look for shapes between the
edges of the cracks.
                                   I hope you
never find yourself and just keep
climbing 'til you fall. I hope our
teachers learn to kick us out for
riding on their backs.

To the few unwelcome guests who
chose to show up uninvited,
and to each who tried his best to
shake the hands of those he spited:

I salute you by the passion,
and the honor, and the name
of every friend who fell from fashion
to the King's ungodly game.

I asked your mom for pictures of that
New Years Eve, and yeah, I'm kind of sorry,
but I don't think I'm at fault.

You were cute before I met you,
and you're cute now, so forget
about the camera, and sit back
and talk like Moses talked to God,
and talk like Mom and Dad would talk
before they found out she was pregnant
with the worst and best two decades
that she still feels were a dream.

And talk like we do; talk like one
of two identical, divisible
denominators stuck inside a
textbook made of dances.
                                              
                                              Please
excuse my dear Aunt Sally for
forgetting how to knock.

She had memorized the train schedule, but
our speech bubbles overlapped the
right way, so I paid for her ticket,
thinking maybe there would be a tunnel
or two to keep our hearts in the dark until
London lay between them once and for all.

My uncle has a can for what goes in
to his mouth, and a bottle for
what comes out.

Cross your heart and hope to
tie me to the bed before
I call my sister for a ride.
I tried to pay you back tonight,
to say I'm sorry for the blackened
salmon that your stomach couldn't handle,
but I only managed "Look
at all the ways we stayed in love."

Because sure,
I trust you.

I trust you like I trust the
fridge-reach condiments
I smear onto my plate
before I find the time to read
the expiration date and part
with what will only hurt me more.