I will say it base you understand
Crossing a bridge and a narratologist tells me about harbors.
This is before I know you navigate your car through a landscape
of bridges. I’ve got an inkling of your smell. With that,
I decide to do everything right, knowing the magnitude
of that task. This was prior to your mouth.
This is what I mean
Egoista is how to say selfish. Ego: the self. –Ista like pharmacist
or philanthropist— one that traffics in the self. Last night,
I couldn’t stop describing my flaws to you as serious
and possibly even fatal, but you darned every incision.
Which is to say
I can tell you everything that ever happened
because it’s already done. What about
what I am capable of? I’m afraid of the next day.
We area fascinating sum. We have been squared,
spliced, and negated. Our totals have been heaped
with words that don’t equal.
(That’s my hope talking,
making us the same container.)
It must be obvious
I am vain and conceited. I steal. When I am scared, I lie.
I love the water curtain of opiates. I’d abandon you
for the trifling. I cry foolishly when I am in love. Broken things
in love. I didn’t know love. I love like a -philia.
I give love wrongly. I give it with spite and for greed.
Is that so bad?
I stuffed the gag of duplicity in your mouth
and you bit into it. We were cruel probes.
We fixed the curtains
so dark would be ours for a time.
I saw you sleep
and so I saw you, purgatorial.
Forgive me, they were delicious
The windows are open. I speak through a fan
for the serration. I have a set of keys
to your house and to your car. I ride in your car
to the gas station with your money card.
I sit in your bedroom wrapped by your quilt.
I spill a circle of black ink, so not domestic,
and soak it with milk from your refrigerator,
and will be contrite and docile with you
and will leap at the sound of your god whistle.
Wild girl of my nightmare,
the smell of morning patio
after all night wrestling bear-sized
infrequencies with no cigarettes
is what you are. My concrete boots,
my wet tomb. Regret is my new mode.
I am a thrilling lament:
Princess if you had loved me,
I wouldn’t have co-opted your shadow
as mine. I clean you with sand
and daylight to keep you from fretful
and sullen. In the world for a long time,
we’re each other’s sugar dose
and mark the night with static
blips to pretend at sisterly fidelity.
Make my clothes dripping,
and make them organ and smoke.
Make me an outfit with mutable bloom,
an envy magnet. Make
me a fabric that changes
the subject. Truss me like a bottle
filled with artificial blue or red
to suit my character, full of holes
to suggest suggestion. I’d like
transport but also love bucket
and disputed borders.