There are worse things to count than failures. Pink and taut,
a slab of meat twitches in the crockpot like a gymnast’s muscle.
Tonight I parse the cook time by redness. When it’s the color of my lips,
it’s time to pour the Wild Turkey and bash in the spider webs. In heels
I can still run, the brunt of my full weight like wet blades
through sugar water. Would I be prettier if I were a cat? I need
you to dazzle my insults with some backhands, please. I’d like them
to sparkle. Sometimes the cracks in my voice are so deep you need a lantern
to get by the three-headed guard rabbit at the gates. You must go barefoot
on the gravel made by brass and deer hooves. I feel chills
in my hands and feet when I cartwheel into a room, but it’s just the spinning
of gold static letting me know that it’s winter now. It has been too long
that the empty children’s lungs are piping that cornflake music.
Love, this all for you. Tonight let’s lie like two bowls about to be cleaned.
art. literature. commentary.
