Your Death vs. My Death

Here is the dab of paint sweetening

itself where the painter said live here. Religion a new

shoe. God living in her box. The storm

twitching in the street. The epiphanic gentle

ghost of string beans happy on the vine.

You rescued me! Lexicography a broken

light scattering the plains of your face.

You rescued all kinds of things! This is

second grade & its blackline caterpillars.

Be solved. The picket whitewash & its bound

braids. All you need to know about gold

& witches. Salt & queens. Death an easy shoulder

shrug. Princesses get drowned. Nick

Fish dies. Daughters make kings weep. Magic

happens. I sank w/the cannonball

into sardine tins. Italo your name between

my knees. Two dogs, one leash. Seven

sisters one big world. Viscera

tabled. A punchline every 20 pages. Key

bump. The special K. Her breath

a blackline caterpillar. Be marital

w/me. Be my three scoops. Be my less

breath less push infant resuscitation.

The use just two fingers. The Our

Father, the hour our daughter

died in the shower. My ear cradling

a monoxide beep. Carbon copies,

a Chinese dragon remembering

itself. The single impasto ruffle

surrounding a thirty-two C.

~

I know death

to be filé gumbo, a black

locket, une fille the men call

hussy w/her posse of satin

vegetables & illicit text

messages. The beautiful extension

clips in a gnarl of hair.

But your death is different,

I think, more margarita

rocks/salt, more house w/room

for cream. The simple order & $1 bill.

A reverse cowgirl. The strawberry body

spray. Because no one

really wants Ben Wa balls. No one

really wants the suck for blow. But you did,

didn’t you. You showed us

your tits. You pretended there was no

cell phone camera. You were all fun &

reindeer games. Then you were

just another purple dildo sleeping

in its clamshell sleeve.

That’s the kind of death

I want for you. The kind of death

that’s kind. Four double A’s.

A medium-security women’s prison.

A reverse namaste. What you thought

were Ben wa balls was ultimately “the long haul.”

Was the bed he built. Was the sharp object he drove

into your acrylic painting, creating a perfect

90° rip amidst the perfect yellow dots.

How we’d like another Shock

Top pitcher & some fresh orange wedges please.

“There was so much pussy.”

There was so much bone when I kissed the wall

your fist broke. A woman’s mouth can have

that same taste, patient. Hairlessness

& squeeze. The paper gun.

Because a boat can burn surrounded by water.

Because a man removed his mouth from my breasts to ask,

“Are these real?” Because no one ever says “She was a real

woman’s woman.” Because someone,

irritated, says, “I want to see

labia.”

~