When She Dies the Universe Blows a Fuse
In the distance mountains
like broken porcelain dolls propped up on
their spinal injuries; where bats
dry out on their hangars; and where smirks
The Rookwitch.
Playing addict chess, we
take cigarettes from each other’s mouths.
Soon the glovebox is crammed with the
ciggies — a synthetic sponge of a tongue
poking back at us.
Fraudulent tides of my
blood rock me to no sleep.
But gin-and-tonics
trouble my rocks.
Her nipples bloom between my teeth,
her buttery crotch a dozy
sunset across a swamp bayou.
I long to crop her orchids bare. With my teeth.
The Rookwitch & I
tattooing sonnets on each others’ backs
when thunder sears us
like a dog slapped on the nose.
So why are there are no thunderclouds outside?
Jangled guts, heart sinking, we rush
outside to meet the traffic accident. . . and find none.
Instead, powerlines like butchered arteries
jangle the otherwise neat lawn. The
transformer has cracked under the
strain of the news that Dorothy Porter has died.
-- It, too, has cracked.
1 comment:
Fabulist at every turn! Bravo!
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