Sailing I suppose through dreams
as thick as set concrete, too heavy
to sleep for long. Heaven is light years away,
just another mile from Mary Ann’s, and questions creep
with cement feet to my bedside, tell me
little lies the color of rotting oranges, whisper
nothing sweet in my whirlpool ears. You
were there once, whispering too, something about
blue skies or eyes, and there was a comet loping toward
my belly, hammering into my head instead,
exploding just behind my eyes. Remember that?
Your feet were wet and there were wolf dogs
howling, undomesticated, having taken their
cues from the wild things that wander these streets
hissing and whispering nothing sweet. There
is a song somewhere behind the bulge
of one of my ribs, a song that says I am yours,
your name was carved there when God pulled
you from my belly a toenail at a time. I loved
you that day, your hair falling in soft gentle waves
along the angles of your cheekbones. You scream-smiled
then, I remember that, and your belly was flat and
there was a serpent loping along your forearm
hissing whispering nothing sweet. We
ate no meat, but there were raspberries
and kangaroos and we played out our love
in a symphony of kazooz and the stars laughed
and danced commented twice on the way your front
teeth shimmered when you sang, so white, they lit
up the night. I remember that. It was a love story
of sorts, the only sort of love story worth telling, the
kind that doesn’t end happily because it doesn’t end.
Burlesque Press 