--I HAVE TO TRUST SOMEONE AND IT MIGHT AS WELL BE YOU

  

The Sweater

I am the black

Sweater

You left behind

On the love seat

Love no longer an option

My yarn is tight

Fine Egyptian cotton

Mercerized

Top stitched and fully-fashioned.

Your skin

It used to sit or swish

Inside of me

Against my limbs and lengths

My sleeves and being

You took me places

Folded me

Kept me clean

Now I am a heap of yarn

Dead threads

Smelling of your perfume

But mostly

Reeking rust and

Regret

Recluse

The water hums

White and chalky like a mummy

Needing to strangle or smother someone,

Maybe you.

Butterscotch sun is a bored voyeur.

Eagles shop for fish or a dense duckling.

The wounded are all out for a swim

But you know better,

Or think you do.

Glass and beams separate

The outside air the earth the real world.

Inside you’ve designed another planet.

With a regal crown

While wearing your bathroom gown

You suck down dust and plankton

Diaphanous food.

Your lips twist, burning like an oven coil.

All this ugliness suits you.

God is the boy with the sharp sixth grade kiss.

Dancing is for fools.

Scent of cauliflower and death

Wear shadows on the wall

And no one would have it any other way

Least of all you.