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Every Cell in this Country Looks Like a Choice You Can Walk In and Out Of
Does a man with no intentions know he means you only harm? If lodged in the scar were a pearl of such precise damage no tongue could lift it— Either I am talking about my ex-lover or I am talking about the president. Every choice in this cell looks like a country he can walk in and out of. Here was a kind of kingdom. If I call him "King," then he is. If he is late, it is the Waste Kingdom. If a king there's elsewhere a slave and, too, a mule the grass can't grow quickly enough into the mouth of. Beneath this same pulled- tooth moon I drop my body like an axe- head into a bed of blue-lipped weeds the king's highway rides its joys through. A crisis at my navel lifts the century out of turn. In the buzz of his country's decay I give a form to the chaos. He loves to say he hates me, meaning his need to use me confuses him. I want to say I love me in the language of a place where it is possible; this is a stark mood with few conditions. The kingdom wears a skirt of woods, busy insects to signify health, a flag crested with & Fuck That MF. Yes, that should have been its whole name. Yes, I am delectable, and therefore a spiral of buzzards descends in helix or a whole horde of countrymen perfects the custom of puzzling my flesh. He licks the femur of a thing that many hands ago was me; he says, "If you want to be enough be both." He is talking about my bullet- casket carcass, or he is talking about how fuckable I looked laid roadside in red.