I have magazine images in a black book,
and a mad hatter wedding.
Orange has become a pattern. I follow it,
on to the pavement laid
over a four-tier that I chose.
And has it come to be?
Has this compact icing eaten
away a beautiful day?
I have hoarded slice after slice
from red weddings
and pink weddings
and green weddings, that I never want to attend.
I stuffed them under pillowcases,
under my un-kept single bed,
meant to be pulled out on a day when
buttercream will whisper at me about
the way I should dance,
like I am in love,
like I know how to make four-tiers
come alive with
I will pull the slices out
with white diamond
shoes, but by then, I am afraid,
my legs will not remember
how to move like they are in love.
The top of the stairs is a lonely
human splotch spying
on a beautiful
her name is dusty
men of solution
she extends a maze with her hand
a crushing warmth
twisted, bending, twirling
at the bottom of the stairs
from the bottom
where dusk sways
entangling him into her
We cooked, cooked together
smashed meat with boulders and fried it
on rocks. We drilled into eggs and
drank the yolk from it’s own shell.
We smiled at each other with leftovers
in our teeth…
I grated peanuts into piles of peanut dust behind my back, while
he played a song that
reminded him of me.
The music tickled on and he sang
and we sang together. We danced and we
To the piano, we were not graceful
but the drums could tell we that we were delicate
and practiced; together.
My hand clutched the peanut dust tightly as
he held, held tightly onto my waist.
He spun me around to
face him, our eyes met.
He closed his eyes, we closed them together.
He leaned in to kiss me.
I leaned my lips to my hand and blew, blew
the dust in his face.
He was stunned – breathless. Choking, he fell to the floor, tears
puddling in his eyes and he cried,
we cried together.