Saturday, April 4


the key grinds in the lock, the tumblers turn
and I am mute with need, my shaking hands filled with 
cast-off shards of iron and agate, glass sticking into skin,
blood welling from the edges and you sink deep. somewhere,
I left my resistance out to dry.

I will pull my ribcage apart and let you eat, replace my red-running
muscle with silver wires, that wretched heart with a canary
stained with iodine, leave me packed stiff with gauze 
and settling in for the winter, racked with longing

and marveling at the chill.
it's supposed to be spring and still I run through gasping cold,
ash-brown trunks blushing green, maple buds burning 
against the sky like the embers of every lonely cigarette
that has flared between my lips at night. at dawn. at civil twilight.

you have coiled between my thighs to hold the ashtray and 
even wordless, my hollows and edges limned electric,
there is no difference between the summoning
and the invitation.