Swinging in the orchard, kissing in the shadows,
I want you to stay, but take yourself away
so I can forget you.
Our mouths, full of pink thunder smash together.
Lips, tongue, teeth – all fat full of throbbing promise
like spring, when a hare unfurls its ears,
pricking up like fast growing flowers in a field.
This is a love that’s itchy and broken and cold and worn.
No flux, no flow, no fucking –
just a mad monkey clawing at your back after you’ve ripped your guts off opiates
after a six-month relationship with the needle –
your tired body stinging like broken bottles under your heels.
You come apart at the seams and I piece you back together with affection
just as a grandmother would a tattered family quilt.
When I fall apart, you patch me up like a rag doll,
never sewing any clean seams –
just loose threads from where you’re never finished with me.
I’ve seen little girls with dolls they don’t want anymore.
I’m that floppy doll with the lopsided lips
from too much rough play.
When it’s time to fall apart again,
the only pill I’ll swallow is time
(some dying rattle in my belly)