I—the telltale animal—rest my throat
against the snare of you, offer my howl
to the black-eyed Susan in free will,
one fistful of yellow stubbing the chin
of never-never land. We try our best to
out the devil, to trace his foul-mouthed
lips that outline why we desire what we
loathe. It was your personhood that made
me lose hope—that prison system of a
language. I keep a pay phone in my living
room for you. It rings when I touch myself,
the nostalgic purpose of ill will. I am a marked
woman now. Nape backlit with you in shades
of blue, suffering the robe pity slips off at dusk.
I will always give you credit for such undressing.
No—a form of never—clings like stringy meat to
peach pit. I have yet to love a man who has not
strangled me to death, has not tried to muzzle
want upon waking. If startled, I shout out
the names of gods or unborn babes, a once
upon a time of denials. I count black sheep
and wait for the sound of your touch.
These numbers are a nervous system.
At Least a Dozen Bluets
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