She’s Talking To Me

I am drifting on deep histories
salty seas. She is talking to me.
We are throat cancer. We are worms meat.
My shoulders shrink to nothing.

She dangles from a bouquet of rage,
a hanging body of scarlet. I am her alcoholic
mother. The sky is raining the sea.
She speaks sores at me,
deep reasoning in gray color panties.

I carry her like old luggage, then
scream at the dog to shut it.
Today was just a dream.
I sweat with the sun on chalky concrete.
She kisses  poison like it’s fruit.
Then lays back and licks me.

I play her like a handshake.
The weights are on my ankles.
She burns like radiation while I beg to control it.
I buy my spirit off the market.
She twists the lid off a bottle.
We make love on top of rockets.

She slips through cracks in the surface.
I don’t know how to ignore this.
She draws me like I’m crystal. I’m her silverware and dishes.
I’ve eaten for the last time. Her body is infected.
I pour her in a glass to swallow.
She spits me out and kicks me like a habit.

I die across the oceans.
The water is bad tempered.
She shoots whispers like a bullet.
I’m an empty trigger. I bury her
in the desert. She skins me like a rabbit.
I’m a blue shirt in her sewer,
drifting to sleep on deep history.
My coffin is a boiler. She won’t even haunt me.
My body is  dead to her.
She will not stop talking,
but she stopped talking to me.