I Hope This Is My Face When I Die

I hope this is my face when I die.

Like the other girls’
before they shut their eyes.

Sitting on the porcelain floor,
cold water pouring
over my cold blue body.

It is here,
but my eyes say otherwise.

They say that

I am sitting on top of a casket,
black masked,
tipped back, gin in hand,

sitting on top of love’s old ashes.
Sit next to me,
sit with me here,
a swig for you and more for fear.

Drink with me,
next to me here.

I laugh under black hair balls,
teasing your philosophy,
you make me giggle,

we jump off this old casket and
run, free through the wild,
free through the riddle,

through the bees,
and temptation, and value!

We run away from mascara
smears in water,

away from wrinkled finger prints
and bothered heels,
away from this face,

this face that I hope is mine when I die,
smeared with you,
in a forest,
on a casket,
running free, through the bees,
away from life.

White Winter

In my dreams
she comes, frostbitten;
blue asphyxiation.

Her lips like dried leaves,
brown,
crisp.
Her eyes streaked with trauma
and
under siege.

She commands me, summoning
my tremors with
her poisoned whistle.
I try to inhale,

but my lungs are missing!
I drop.
To my knees, in panic!  They
have escaped!

I cannot find oxygen to grant voice
to tongue. She wrings me out!
Her eyes clamped tight
to my throat, twisting
her frozen corpse
to my
bone.

She has spread; I am cold,
White winter.
Alone.

Egg Allergy

Sad streets are thirsty. They have battled boiling
dreams since glue
drops
dripped on squalid carpet.

Slut!
Mixing flour and water in
three day dirt. So,

I went to collect hens’ eggs.
I stole them.
A pretty red hen was never
offered papers to sign,
to relinquish! I just
took them.

I am grateful for the Bulgarians! They
didn’t crack my egg
and eat her for breakfast! They
decorated her in pink bows,
shined her up for the world.

That poor hen. She would have
been a great mother, but her egg
was scrambled and puked up
by an allergy!