Wherewithal

These are mine now.
These jeans.
Their stains.
Their holes.
Their feel.
Their fit.
Their moves.
Wherewithal.
My ride home.
With enough left
in a back pocket
for unplanned
sidestepping.

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Red Shard

a Mother’s Day Poem

I used it as you would have wanted done:
this sliver of glass still blessed with your dried blood.
Cover yours with mine.
I hear you now. Good.

Leave it. Let it remain inside me. Deep, deep.
I will not fear your voice. Cut. Follow its lead.
Embrace me, sweet escape.
I live you out. Dead.

His

I have him
in me. I have
his mathematics
like a storm
stomping through me.
I have his thin wisps
of poetry tangling
in my head of his hair.
I have his past
conquests, I have
his future surrenders.
I have him. I have
him in me. In me.

Licking him off my lips.
Tasting him on my tongue.
Cruising him down my throat.
Saving him in my belly.
Taking him in my blood.
Living him in my dreams.
Fucking him in my holy bed.
I have him in me. In me.

I always have. Had him.
Even before my mother
took him for a god.
I knew he would find me.
I knew he would know me.
I knew he would have me.
I knew I would have him
and his, his.

Is it against the rule?
Is it bad?
Is it taboo?
Is it wicked sin?
Why must any part of me
refuse to take him in?

I will not deny him.
I will not refuse.
I will not shut my eyes.
I will not close my mouth.
I will not fold my hands.
I will not cross my legs.
I will not say no.

And when I have died
my little death
and bit into his shoulder
and pulled him deeper in
to lay waste to my thighs
to lie spent on my breasts
to drip indecency down my hip,
to whisper against my lips
the same farewell he said
to her when I came out
from his, back into his,
to and far away from his,
for and of and after his,
I will make of him
another in his image
and mine, mine
and his, his.

Cut and Dry

No mention
of a copycat autopsy

came floating to the surface
without stains at the throat

to show for a sign,
a desperate last stroke

to bruise instead
a fragile night

into submissions.
Am I ready?

Find me.
Wash me.
Call me.
Feed me.
Fold me.
Feel me.
Name me.
Burn me.
Know me.

Find me.
Wash me.
Call me.
Feed me.
Fold me.
Feel me.
Name me.
Burn me.
Know me.

Find me.
Wash me.
Call me.
Feed me.
Fold me.
Feel me.
Name me.
Burn me.
Know me.

Find me.
Wash me.
Call me.
Feed me.
Fold me.
Feel me.
Name me.
Burn me.
Know me.

Find me.
Wash me.
Call me.
Feed me.
Fold me.
Feel me.
Name me.
Burn me.
Know me.

Find me.
Wash me.
Call me.
Feed me.
Fold me.
Feel me.
Name me.
Burn me.
Know me.

Find me.
Wash me.
Call me.
Feed me.
Fold me.
Feel me.
Name me.
Burn me.
Know me.

Am I ready
to be anyone taken?

Obviously

Obviously
skin is made
for touching
for scraping
for wanting
for writing on
and that itch beneath
beyond reaching
beyond aching
beyond searching
beyond excusing
chased into shadows
gray and weak
stepping over
hiding under
talking over
falling under
papering over
unwilling to stomach
one more kiss
face to face
moon to moon
shit to shit
naked for nothing
wasted for nothing
broken for nothing
to be poked
to be watched
to be fixed
to be trained
to be worth the effort
teased as a spent shot
in twisted ruin
in faded passion
in tapered deviation
in tortured exception
in angered confession
in tainted salvation
fistful of fitful dream
bruised dream
abused dream
suffocated dream
edgewise dream
feral dream
knotted dream
slapped down slipped dream
so neatly monogrammed
so I would know
so I would know
so I would know
like how my skin
was made.
Obviously
so I would know.