l.
i was a wife
to interminable hospitality. i ripped open the couch
and ate the cushions
until i was comfortable.
am i obsessing on a singular idea
of the home? i want
so endlessly; i drip tomato sauce on a white blouse
and remove it to rinse it off in the sink.
the sensuality of the scene
haunts suburbia for weeks.
i write a love song to my lover, who
faints into the curve of her chaise.
a particularity of reflection; i pull back the view and
see myself everywhere. i claw at the walls.
i am no longer a ghost, but merely
a woman at the sink. i lower my mouth to the running water
and the drops get on my skin.
ll.
rhyme scheme like two bodies in concert,
walk down a night street three-in-a-row, we;
i take a drag off your cigarette,
i don’t smoke but neither do you.
you want to say something but instead
you’re crawling down the street on hands and knees and
saying “there was a button here, i lost it
three years ago, my jacket
is still missing it.”
in our car, out in the street,
you are all smoke in a jean jacket cool,
the button is still missing and
you pin it shut with my earring.
