I don’t have to be ****** to tell you about the night
with the bed. I can be elegant; tell you about seed
and rag, the kind of heartbeat you can hear from
across the room, or the rise and fall of the chest
that you watch to make sure you’re alone. To make
sure you’re safe, now, that the only person awake
is you and the moon. I don’t have to tell you about
the night with the bed at all. I can tell you about the
day before, or the day after, with the car and the bus
and the sunglasses. I can tell you about Pepsi and
Target and Christmas and the way a hand you love
can sting so much. I don’t have to be ****** to tell
you about that night, but I know you want me to be.
You want to hear about the knife that split me open
and what leaked out after, who cleaned the sheets,
if they ever got cleaned. You want to know about
the plane. It departed at 3:14. I’m not sure I ever
got off, but you’re welcome to take the seat next
to me. I’ll tell you about the knife. The night with
the bed. The seed, the rag, the moon. I’ll be as
****** as you want if you promise to hold my hand.
At least until the plane lands.