your house was yellow.
my house was blue and
a ten by ten box;
me trapped,
torn between watching them
pack up their stuff
from their own pact to self,
their own inculpability
and me, dripping virulence,
telling them otherwise and
pushing them out.
I really miss your hands on me.
the way you held me in sullen incubation.
the frame is melting and so am I.
in the cradle of tar black trees,
I remember the oldest incantation:
the thrust I was given,
some gleaned anticipatory luck;
God gave you a chance and
an unfinished smile.
we needed a spark.
I grin full tooth to show you
my new porcelain canines,
casually.
I fight the urge to bow
and suddenly tiptoe
all around you,
two inches taller than you remember
and my tongue hits your neck
like a quill.
hold your breath,
I say and
baby,
I’m a smokeshow, they say.
wait
for some other current to take me.
bite your skin.
let the tips of my
fingers dig in and
there are no exits.
“chrysalis”
Leave a Reply