I’m sorry
The words I cannot say to bring closure.
Little broken pieces that would threaten to disturb the peace that is.
Our “Run to You” ran aground and ran its course
And “I’m sorry” turned up empty.
The two-bite swallowing of *whatever* we used to be -a slightly bitter pill.
It didn’t have to be this way.
But we know it did.
And in the end, it was.
This is just to say
I do not know which sweet plums
you are speaking of.
Who even are you, and how
did you get into my house?
1.
Now the cuckold sees.
Mona’s eyes, he mulls, a problem—
adorable, pellucid irises green
as onions.
Fertile valley, tubs
of ornament and nourishment
on supple skin—porcelain
wrapped thin
in black transparent
nylon.
2.
His fumbling hand feels
through his pocket,
his denigration complete.
3.
She loves this.
Dolly knows all, Dolly never tells
The secrets that befalls
The toymaker and baker’s boy
In the shame they share.
Dolly always sees, Dolly never bleeds
With pain, with agony
The man behind the mirror
Punishes happily.
Dolly cannot cry, Dolly never lies
The heart shielding misery
Throbs and breaks
Until damaged mystery.
A day disappears
potassium evaporates
feet I cant feel acheburnrememberbeingup-wallsforeightmonthstocooldown
The beginning of nineyearsago
wolf claws inside me tearing into every soft cell in a cadaver whose heart just won’t stop
I wait
ambition of a life evaporates
sun is high when I lift the burgundy old navy tee from my face
morning is gone I sit in sweat hypothermic waiting to find a place outside the island of this bed
the sun keeps moving without me
crape myrtles reach high
anemic naked inverted teepees break view from southern windows reminding my bed it’s not the only world
pineapple is low in potassium but still higher than potassium pills which smell awful and I don’t have anyway. I think I might die where are the emergency electrolyte packs with poisons in themselvesthe mind wanders to pineapple
over and again
I correct typos I should leave in given their evidentiary witnessing to this chemistry’s despait
the moon is back. The day is lost. Feet crunchy and fragile like my art drawer crepe paper twenty feet away that I can’t get to. I loathe most days whoever spelled crepe myrtle wrong one time and stuck me with crape in canon. Ugly shrubs someone else planted
Cell walls in my squash plants desiccate
we all evaporate
too much pain to remember to loathe the myrtle today
