I Was Her Before The Sun Went Down

and who was I at midnight?
Your throat on firewater, swallowing
baggy, flabby tongues.
It is no matter,
tonight is seven hundred stories high

and I am ready to jump. Before I do, though,
I remember you
and sitting on your lap,
the shot,
the bounce,
your heavy gunman.

The moon has a chain on it,
this I never told you,
I put it there myself, several years ago.
It lingers patiently, sleepily awaiting me,
tied up and braced for thunder.

I will come pounding from the top
of your world, the last one I was shown,
up seven hundred staircases
to reach,
to grab,
to attach myself to the moon.

I have a long connection from brain
to chest, in gentle condition,
you were always soft,

not like this scratched metal chain
stabbing in to thin purple veins, on purpose,
a reminder.

A reminder that it is always just after midnight,
no matter what anyone says.

Polly

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!