We nest in waystations,
half split between lairs,
two larva devouring each other
to become a single beast.
We crash desperate —
no hestitation before we
skin ourselves and unhinge.
This is the monster of us:
a spider of limbs, a knot of pythons.
We have too many teeth
and too many nails.
We are Chimera.
We predator and prey ourselves.
We crush sex until it pops,
a bubble red and full
of throbbing. We writhe wet
into each other. Too hot,
too steam, too slick —
we are half circles fulling,
fused at crown of mouth
and tangled genital root.
We suck air and thrust
swallows of fire down
into our needy belly.
We have a beard full of blood.
We have a throat raw,
a vessel wrestled empty.
One mouth gasps, the other growls,
we hoard our clenches; we worry
holes into our shoulders to stash them in.
We slip free, we scrabble back.
One mouth wails, the other shushes.
This morning, the sun on the porch
is just the cool side of warm,
and the little hula girl on the patio table
drinks light and shimmies her toy hips
while the crows bicker about us,
while the cats curl through our legs
and I tell you about yellow ginko leaves
and why they remind me of you.
You aren’t here, not today.
Today, you tell me you are imaginary.
You are a wisp of an image
swaying like the hula girl
in the steam that curls
off my coffee cup,
and vanishes just as quick
but I wish you were.
I imagine the spring light
in your wild hair, the music you make,
the poetry you fill my mouth with,
my fingers and my mouth,
I imagine my mouth
full of yellow ginko, full of your tongue.
If I imagine you
real, would you be real?
Be real, so I can tell you of the poem
I’ve picked out for your hip.
Be real, so I can translate the debate
and bicker of crows to you.
Be real, unbrushed and wild, be real
so when I cease to imagine and start to long,
you are what my fingers can grasp.
At two a.m., you are drunk on bourbon.
Celebrating on your balcony,
in the warm air on the last day of February,
with just a protein bar
and some kale chips in your belly.
You write me poems
and send me songs
and apologize apologize apologize
and you text “Call me please”
from three hundred and sixty five miles away,
because you’ve gotten yourself stuck
on the bathroom floor.
It’s the first time I hear your voice
since Birmingham. You are weepy drunk,
and I tell you jokes to turn you giggly drunk,
and you slip into horny drunk and tell me
the things you want to do with your mouth.
You are adorable, and I am a year of miles away,
coaxing you back into bed with just my voice
crackling over radio towers.
Rest, little drunk.
Tomorrow, you have a hangover
and this poem
and my love to look forward to.