--I NEVER HAVE A GOOD ANSWER

 

                                                        Cuckold

She says she has a new diet, that she will only eat words from now on.  I say, “Worms?” but she corrects me.  She fills her bowl with adjectives.  She floods her plate with plurals connoting paganism.  Or maybe she means plagiarism.  I get so jealous.  She is one of a kind.

 

                                                                     Fondue

            I am lines and glyphs and a face full of folded things.  I walk on stumpy stilts.  I need a cause to fight for.  You told me once, “I believe in you.”  People used to think the world was flat and now such a notion seems silly insanity.  If you place your hand here, dip a finger into its gooey center and have a taste, you might be able to understand me.

 

                                                                      Beneath

            My trachea is a leaky boat spilling saltwater as well as my secret impulses.  These, they bob and throb beside bluewater veins and slippery shells, fragile but not yet broken.

 

                                                                   The Dead Sea

            She laid me down in a bed, in a bath of oily holy water stole from foreign soil.  I felt compromised.  My eyelids reflected on the surface, looked like unshut doors, windows left open for lurking burglars wearing gloves so as not to leave prints.  When I dream now I mostly float.  The salt is briny but it brings me luck.

 

                                                                       Six

One omen is that Mother hums now, a feline, a heater, a planet twisting wrong in its dark orbit.  She irons shirts and underwear.  Her hair is frosted, her lids glossy lime.  There was a time so long ago, when I was maybe an embryo, that she needed me.

                                               

                                                          Dumb               

Today I woke and learned that I can no longer speak.  My tongue is gone.  My mouth is a hole, a rictus, a well.  Drop a penny down to hear the splatter.  Make a wish for me, please.

 

                                                     My Confessions    

These words are my organs, pulsing and spilling sloppy over my skins and blank pages and choruses.  I have urges that frighten me.  Lean your head here and try not to tremble.

 

                                                          History

His breath tells stories, glories, never boring but always lethal.  The stains on his striped overalls are permanent.  They are.

 

                                                         Messages

I have possessions I want to share, little origami items with prophecies stuffed inside.  When I try eating them, they show up the next day, dry and smearless.  I wish I could find a person in need.  I wish I wish.  I wish I were more like my possessions: clearly written and meaningful.