You taste like gin and .40s and you say you don’t hate anything
about me. We kiss. And kiss again. Kisses that eat the miles between you
and me. Hands steal under the stupid sweatshirt I wore.
My mom’s been sick for three months. Keppra to calm her brain, hold
it like the metal axis around a globe, tilting the earth. Little men
visit my mother at night. “Let us out from behind the dresser.” Let us
out. She laughed when she told me. “The room was crowded. I said,
‘You have to wait until my husband is asleep.’”
You have to wait.
I don’t know if it’s you or me biting my lip. My hands slip through your hair
like a woman kneading rosary beads. It’s a prayer about what you
don’t know and hallucinations. About hands on thighs, late night
trips to the hospital. My hip bones jut out like armed guards.
Your lips talk them down from their post. Asking. Insisting. Erasing.
There were no men. There was no music. There are no spiders. Only cracks
reaching for my hand saying that death of mind is merely new perspective.
Your hand on my chest could fracture bone and pull out the quiet
of my body until it breathed hemorrhages and squared clocks.
Forget that brittle cartilage. Get back to my jaw. I’m done with air. I’m done
with this sweatshirt. Faces press like stones making fire. Mouths
are meant for contact. Communicate. Tell me
you’re glad that I’m here. At least study the door long after