There is a bride on my body,

syringed, after the hundred rooms,

an amusement to snort, a bone matter

in a human, liken to paradise

 

In veins. She is a shot, this cake mix-

death certificate; a white pharmacy

to pupils. Mercury voiced a blood cell

arresting Hate flaccid, and all quasi

 

governmental brains quicken love

and make hurt, God. My tetanus

gathered in a man with sympathy

but the legacy is reflection.

 

We love our murderers, our niche

in our un-mothered. The bile is

the poppy bonfire, the cradle

on the spoon and we conform

 

to the casket with too much

emphatic love for the lack of world.

All romance is the release, the gorgeous

sob, the vodka slipping from the eye

 

to the mouth; seducing me

with art like a hero’s kiss. I am

a magnet for November; the varnished

burnt orange madness, like shoots,

 

scarring the days of winter. Absence

pollutes me and I dilute my soldier,

soldering my Admiral’s wings

with puddles, heavy as sin.

 

My iris hurts, vacuuming solo, and

my hair longs for fingers, whispering

“You can sleep,

I will still be here.”