I'm looking for the good robin of everlasting sewing. Easy as a bed to bed. And his words are mints. My shock in the ghost of the guest of my boyfriend. First there is the Father. He would not like me to tell you about him. He is punching holes right now. Saying petit, petit, petit. Garbled—he can seem like a balloon. Such a skin. A kingfisher. We are afraid to touch him. Like too many nights of touching ourselves. He might plan to take us on a picnic. We must be ready. We must be hungry. I finished my blue necklace. She tries to convince him because he was here on earth. Dad quits his job for the umpteenth time. I'm wicked lonely. We are in a department store. I buy him a blue bracelet because it is right there. And I would wear it. I buy it hoping he bought me something for Christmas. This is never true of course. We talk about religion. Of jasper things in trees. He wears an engagement ring. I am shivery, full of V-8. He drinks too much and cheats all the time. All of whom he left behind in the Bible belt are singing Yes, yes yes We put our hands over our face, our neck. We are overcome, saying, "No, no. I can't. I can't."
I want to lick someone with an antelope for a head. A whole-person-boxer for a fist. Circulatory, fruited over nostalgia to overcome me like a truck I'll drive over his body while he reaches for a telephonic breast. The way gods do when they create the first animal cracker steams of existence. Fat plant and vernix. The shattered cursive equations my love was capable of. I said there will never be a night like this How is it I was right? How fibrous and incidental it seems. The tiny leather jackets we wore. What was it about that quality that I admired? Loping around like a christening pole-cat.