Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Spitting Sparks

Your breakers got flipped, every appliance
turned inside out, muscle transformed
into conduits into flab. Red sky turns acid green.
Wires flail like sparking noodles. Holes burned
in your jeans but you can’t be bothered
or don’t have time or are not permitted
to patch them. I miss looking forward
to dusk’s jarring transition, miss looking forward
to feeling myself shudder beneath your boot.
I miss looking forward to not being able to sleep
beneath your weight.
Spend every night alone, and the loneliness accumulates
and makes it harder to reach out, keeps me digging
that deep hole of isolation, until I feel buried alive.
The sunken chest, scuttling with filthy crabs
instead of gold, dangling from a single strand
of fraying rope above a coral cage.
Centipede in a spider web writhes
until the entire structure is pulled down.
All the trapped insects fly free.
I whisper you bedtime stories
of hammocks and inner tubes,
of raccoon families waddling across the road,
while all the while I’m tearing off your legs
one by one by one, watching how long it takes
for them to grow back.
My fingers smell like a damp dishrag,
like a fishing line knotted around a sock.
I remember when night would rise
and we would huddle together
against a memory foam log
beside the air conditioned creek.
With my dentures lost, I can no longer chew
your flesh, I need you minced and chopped
and pureed so I can suck and slurp you up.
Beyond the taped up electrical cord
I’ve looped around us, robot snakes spit
robot venom. I miss the days
when I could keep myself better company,
when I didn’t bore myself stupid, when we
were more than mere dimly lit screens.
When I was able to speak in a booming voice
of unshakable authority. I miss drifting off to sleep
with my cord in your little hand,
miss seeing your withered smile
glowing in the dark.

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