I won’t apologize for hoping you auction your furniture, even the
Mafia smoking chair we bought off that Scotsman.
I’m selfish. I’m needy. I’m hunger. What is a poet but
excessive want
I eat. Once a month I stick out my tongue just enough to grab you.
Lick you. When kids ask how hate is made, this is what we won’t
tell them. Sprinkles of spite
over the shoulders, a full-soul splintering
Love eludes resentment and forgetting, cell by cell.
The Domestic. The Slow Emergency.
How long can a haunting last till ghosts grow tired?
Beloved dead musician’s new album fails with critics.
His memory deserves more.
Memories deserve peace, you told me.
Last summer, we learned why viruses are dreamed up in labs,
sleeping innocently on coat sleeves, mere lightyears away
from its own antidote being understood, injected,
stabbed in forearms. The worst of us are not yet
fit for the world as-is. Waiting in absentia, escaping
by accident, escaping in crisis.
I find my way through my mother’s vanity, sweep away
never-been-wished with eyelashes. Forgettable shadows
Not-loved-enough lace hairpieces
Really, I’m just,
Bored of talking about survival. Rip out my ovaries
A kidney, some guilt, appendix. Re-homing would be easier
With less to pack
