Sunday, March 13, 2011
I'm sick of the back door--
That's no way for a lady to make a proper entrance.
Thanks for the short-handled fire axe...
It's easier for me to grip;
And ever since you brought it, wrapped in a pink bow, to bury in my living room wall,
I've been mulling other uses for it.
I can be the tenderest of lovers, you'll see--
I will wrap my arms and legs around you weightlessly,
My lips at your throat,
Like a grinning locust on a stalk.
When I wrist-flip your skull down the hard wooden stairs,
You'll hear me at last
And see seven of everything.
Don't let's end this way--
Let me write you one last love poem on a lamp shade,
So that my leaving will light up the room every time you think of me;
After I've kicked off my shoes and run to the middle of the pedestrian bridge above the freeway,
I'll be careful about the cars...
I know they always make you sad, and I am not heartless.
The link mesh is like a protective angel--
It lets the breeze in, but prevents me from dropping things into the lanes below.
Still, you always liked me clever,
And so I crawl up and hang upside down from the inside arch,
And that is enough
To distract and bring fire and doom
To travelers I can't get close enough to touch;
Lunatic moth, that's me,
As I make my way at last
Down the parallax to the other side,
And away from us.