photo by Elaine Usdin
I turned my soul inside out for you
Wept in phlegm, in blood, in motes of dust.
I painted my red lips Avian blue
In exchange for access to your guild
But having peeped I find it empty.
The rabbit having sprung from
My breast unannounced
Assures me admittance if only I follow.
My hips are wedges of granite
Crammed into a safari
That cannot be undertaken
Without a subsequent loss of life.
Nothing good comes from a tin can,
Lest of all a heart though I have been
Known to preserve in times of famine.
It is not what I lack but what you cannot
Seem to find that disturbs me.
There is always a watch spilling
From your fingertips, always a distraction.
Face down in a row of disposable cups
You haven’t even neglect to spare.
There is nothing, positively nothing
In you that should entice me
But to my consternation I wait.
I mean to murder you, to shrug you off
To indulge you through various modes of starvation.
I am a librarian, a codex, a purveyor of words
And fashions that are too monstrous to lend.