Amaranth, on my back, off
the edge of life.
Dangling cords fall
like snakes, I hanged them
there to dry
me out. With you,
it is cold.
I can’t say that. I miss you,
but I do not. Have you
been tempted to rip her
skin off and put mine on?
My back is off
the edge, now
life is seeping through
my toes, amaranth
dangling, a love letter
for you.
inch of time spent over the sea,
dragging your dead body back
from the sharks I fed you to.
There should be enough salt
to drown in. Now that is something
you don’t hear of!
But, I have heard of Buddha,
and Ghandi,
and what great advice for the
blonde girls in white dresses,
not scratched by hands of
light drinking, or hard gunfire;
the girls untouched by
living a dead life, waking under floorboards
built by their mothers.
Your heavy photograph burns to
my tongue. I spit. I curse you out
of your newly dried grave.
I am ecstatic for your corpse,
it grows on me like tough leather.
Now for her.
I carry a monsoon to her driveway.
She is lit up. A bright pumpkin
ripened for plummet.
She dresses in honeysuckle,
and flickers like whiskey.
I haven’t thought of her name,
she is black as a canvas; a new galaxy
before energy matters.
If her heart happens to
do that, I will carve it out.
I will take it back to July in my teeth
where the desert is waiting for me,
it’s Queen.
Three minutes in – I am a dream.
Have you ever been met
by a mirror? Twisted like
eyebrows in confusion.
Steel eye compartments
ready for battle.
Nail my head to the floor,
my only choice is to look up
to neighbors…
to enemies.
The minutes slice off the clock
as we talk – I am imaginary.
She sees me with her husband,
white t-shirt sucked to my
chest, wet from digestion –
I am the dark apple.
My bags are packed, my body
on 90 miles per hour.
The hidden highway – I carve three minutes in-
distressed almond skinny
dipping in shame.
Have you seen me today?
Have you looked in the mirror?
I have not felt my legs in four years.
I hate months. Each carries different
demons. November is a home-wrecker.
Prancing in lives
like a horse,
with a horse,
trampling my legs,
shattering a fragile life.
He went with the moon.
A silver carriage
whisking him into the night.
I laid on the floor in
a broken heap. Expecting.
A cloud came in and took his place.
Pouring sharp gulp after gulp.
Until, questions came.
Until the bugs crawled through
my nostrils,
dragging hallucinations behind them
on chains.
I loved them. For a moment,
I loved them. But their names changed.
On a basis.
We went infrared together.
Having seizures and one night stands.
Dancing black dances.
Taxi after taxi. Until,
the cloud cleared. Left me like he did.
November was not anymore,
and still I cannot feel my legs.
She is the orange hatter. Holding
orange rose blossoms
against black lace.
Bride marrying
a fish;
a plaid, handsome fish.
He watches her walk,
holds stern hands together,
to keep
from touching
a brunette flower in gold trim.
She is beautiful, the flower, with
agony’s gaze.
With child.
Matching orange bouquets with the bride.
Flushed in the background,
a lemon princess smiles.
Throwing innocence on
holy ground. The only
child left.
Left by Mother, (un-photographed),
because
Mother had no bouquet, just
a bastard lemon child
in a basket,
in July.
July has taken more lemons than
given. From dumpsters.
From wombs.
Some, children of children.
Some, children of
addicts,
victims,
shame.
Some, children of a flower in
Gold trim, holding on to a matching
bouquet
of a Bride.
In case of necessity, hang your husband.
Your pistol might misfire, but prevent.
It will happen, poor turtle!
Your slow shoes will be suspicious; sluggish,
lame,
dragging the accused on a rope.
What a shame personal bravery is. Suspecting
everything
but its own heart. Much better a
widow than
a former, I suppose.
So, just in case, keep rope.
Mary or
Heather or
Anne will lay weight on
your fool. Pretty wretch!
Then wine,
then pistol,
biting cries then
silence.
She can’t escape without her eyes!
He means
to bury himself deep
in your bed,
where you may find happiness
tomorrow,
but
the rope!
A whore will steal everything but!
That fool of a Hurricane came along
wearing her precious
golden wig
her bitch stamp
tempestuous temptress
twirling
spinning
violence through
internal bricks and boards
I am a carpenter
a blood sculptor
The Queen
my masterpiece
in matching
patterns
nailed to the walls
my precious dynasty
garnished with
parallel features
inside and
out
muscles and brawn
My King
mixed with this
destructive
maniacal
windstorm
she rushed him
in her
giant waves
into her vast Ocean
her wet white body
then ripped and yanked
at my prized
creation
jerking
wrenching
until defeat ambushed
her
from behind
she resigned
and I was left
with my masterpiece
to clear the clutter
the debris
watching the Ocean for the
return of
my King.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 