Monday, February 11, 2013
If after all that— would I knot my tie in the same manner as your Ted?
Take you home, spread your legs, enter the
Split aerial, gold on my fingerprints blood bitten bottom lip
Don’t hesitate to harangue
Enter the place where all your poems come,
Be your mattress, you on top (so much shit they gave us once)
Plumsugahskies lid, lavender ships, my spring break, my circled ink calendar space
Buoyed matter, my little pinkie curled around your auburn tress, sloughed
Skirt blouse, heaped in androgynous dune, corduroy tangled afternoon
Where I tell you shit—
‘Don’t hafta turn the oven on 400 to stick your head in it—
To feel warm inside’- fairy child since he lied, kiss your July forehead
Paint your nails an amethyst blue, dew your tears and wet your hips,
Watch your fingertips come—
would I be like him, though?
Etonian fop, dressed alone, salutary, milk
Your nipples until a bad poem curdles, sully
Sunday alone, tweed, elbow patched, your name
In my jacket, your fluid on my handkerchief
Scent still life with a bowl of honey
Salt from my body, your eyes black as
Tacks pinned to that place where you would
Not let me take you.
Where you would not let me take you away.