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
and their own inculpability,
fragile glass faces
slighlyt cracked and me,
stunned and dripping a
flattening virulence,

telling them about themselves,
breaking and then
pushing them out.


I really miss your hands on me.
the way you held me in
sullen incubation.
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.
now the frame is melting
and so am I
in the cradle of tar black trees,
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” 

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