do not trust the beating heart above you, it is full of oil
not blood and will not sustain you. mechanics made simple
and clean, what looks real is often just a clever composition
of scrap metal. though you can hear the thump know that
it is only good acoustics, and the color comes from iron oxide.
they make them in factories where the acid eats the chambers
and each one is edged with rust that will ensure infection
festers. it is stapled into your chest. and so you are pierced.
look to your wrists, where the skin is thin, for the warning.
it was just before the spring equinox that we shared
a cigarette and you lulled me into your arms like
carbon monoxide. a slow exhalation and i was there,
like smoke in a jar. burn marks on the insides of my
thighs, the side of my neck, my lips peeling and bloody.
lungs blackened, i heaved you a fragment of song
and you caught my notes in your mouth, menthol
sentiment sweet and heavy. they will find us like
discarded filters in the stomachs of fish, unfinished
decomposition, our love still smoking.
silence evaporates and all i can hear are the power lines
humming, some song meant only for air molecules as they
float up, up into the atmosphere to freewheel and spin,
micro orbits, making love with each other as they aim
towards the moon. i have known heady electrocutions
coursing over blank skin, have seen the airplane writers
loop diagrams of the path to salvation. they are credible.
the braille of the clouds speak of change. the sky becomes
clear and my eyes are getting there and i inhale your breath
and hold it, lifted up, up into currents of stars.
for my mother and father.
break me into a million pieces. rearrange my sad
face with an open-palmed hand, recreate what
it was like when i returned home slack-jawed
and still wanting and nothing you could say or do
could keep me from going over the edge into
empty air. uncatchable, i ran into traffic, roaring
my discontent, the loose ends of strings still
dangling from my wrists, cut. i crossed 7000 miles
and now all i need is a few more, to clean up
the blood from the floor, to clear my head of all
this ringing, a ghost daughter who holds your hand,
but all you do is shiver.