I Love You, Dead
Also for such stillness there should be teeth
and wine enough to yank the thought up throat.
When she dies, she dies. She plunges her blood toes
into somebody’s ash tea. A kindness and a penny drop.
In another life, she was a jujube. I am an overeater. She is not
a body I want to eat. Shiny tuna rot in the forest mulch.
Though she stews gently. Her thoughts of me are always kind.
Her thoughts are always mangled and full of electric
suction cups. For example, she wants to wear my lungs
for a bag of pipes. These are the days of brilliance and poetry.
Bloated with salt and our little muses. My jaw now is a little worse
for wear. I need her like a copper tinge and mechanical throb.
Bury her though she leaps up with cumbersome
thirst. She swarms me. She thrusts a hand upward
and through me. Nothing stays. Is knobbed
and oozing past a stone. What heart. What sponge for brain.
She will not fit inside my tiny mouth, my mouth full of dead hair.