Loving her is a kind of madness,
She keeps spiders instead of parakeets,
Each with a fine rainbow hat
And a smattering of ambivalent eyes.
In her pockets she shelters chameleons
Smaller than thumb prints,
In glaring Mediterranean palettes.
The sun emerges
Behind a clutch
Of gesticulating cypress
Ruffled by the musings
Of a lapis lazuli wind
My heart only a stone’s throw
From where she stoops
In bushels and wreathes.
She is not the coffin
I envisioned when I first crawled inside,
Ringside and hypothetical
I lap the serum from her hands,
Thus condemning myself
To a life free of obsolescence,
A life steeped in wine and ink.
When I’m waist deep in brimstone,
Sucking mawkwish fumes from a banded straw
I like to envision her in a red dress
Her hair toppling in acrobatic curls
Lit only by poignant stems of moonlight.
I sift through her books
Her diaries, the little drawer
Where she keeps tube after tube
Of pumice green mascara.
She is my enabler, my strength
The object of all my obscure attachments.
Her body strays
In a bed with too many layers.
I drink her, breath by breath
Until there’s no air between us.