Interstate Aubade

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.

Then,

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;

And when,

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.

_______