Desperately trying to make a home
from a houseplant
that looks pretty but doesn’t
talk back.

Plant myself on your lap:
you’re making other plans.
Plan B
in my gut,
in my hormones,
in my warm dead cavities,
exploding from my disillusioned head
running down my thighs,
my knees,
my pink toes
to the bottom of a drainpipe,
run the shower,
watch it drip away,
the afternoon I said
come over and borrow a book or two
and then
stay  indefinitely in my head.

We’re being filtered in our water,
everyone can drink to our failures,
our funerals,
our feigned orgasms,
our chary romance
that look wets & red hot but
feels like blue-black denial
like the sky I admire during
my psychotic December.
I’m manic and
I warm iron grates like the gaseous sun.
I’m a big, bursting ball of red-hot fun.
You’re libidinous but glued to
the floor and a
cool steel gate made of
gray imposing bars that stay shut
all year long.
How do I make love to that
without pricking my finger
on a strand jag
or rusted lock
or melting you so much with my fiery stardust
you’re just a mush of could have had?
but now you really can’t.
(oh, now you really run)

Where do I put my hands
or my head
or my mouth?
My ideas, my legs
my gaze.
My arms have nothing to wrap themselves around.
We’ve hit a steel ceiling.
Plan B,
you said,
was our only option.
I cracked my abdomen open
to please another man
that from a distant looks like
mirror, or a sunset
with no color
and feels just as bad.
I’m reeling and keeling

Now, despotic lover,
now that it’s over,
now that it’s gone,
where can I put my feelings?

“Plan B”

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