For further reference: I go to love
like a fire engine to a three-alarm,                              flashing

and spinning, yelling across town. Nothing
to be afraid of: the ceiling falling,                                windows 

concave, doors bowed and stiff. My body 
parts fall to, like I was made                                        of the heat. 

Everyone watches, chest-clutching, pointing. 
Inhalation will surely be the cause of                         my death.

Urban myth says an aging vagina once
well-used will shrink from lack                                    of exercise.

I would think, instead, like the collar of a sweater,
stretched, gaping. Or a fish out                                   of water,

grasping for purchase. A soft pop every time
you check to see whether or not                                 it is dead.

I want a song to be written about me: black
pearls, sulfur, bronze-plated silver.                             It should 

have a verse about blood-soaked hands,
a chorus that is a shout of                                            AAAAAHHHHH!

[Sing it with me:                                                              AAAAAHHHHH!]

It won’t be a song where someone stares into 
lit windows from the end of a driveway                     on the last note.