Do not pretend that you don't like it when we threaten you. We see you getting pheromone stink under the collar, moaning, baldly. Motionless, picturing decay. When we creak your step, when we crack your glass, when we tap tap tap, that is a bone that is all we have though we are very shiny, and filled with beetles. We are made entirely of bone. Like an idol. Like the tusk of some wonderful past. When you cleave to us, your skin will fuse, hot calcium meth, and in the myth, you will be named for us.
In Portraits in Seasons
As a feral thing would. As a dead leaf
whose crunch she herself hears, whose
buggy interior floods the sidewalk. Beamy
the world, yet a blank all the same.
Where you’ve tucked your pen into your notes,
I tuck my fingernail, burned and cursed and
shut tight my eyes. I tuck my feet up like a girl.
In this corner, warm milk fall of light something
far from revealing its bone-blank eyes, that is,
the eyes downcast in every portrait, shaded
the ribbon a bright blue furl across the gaze,
the peculiar mother, her arm around a naked toddler
the fall of light. Betrays nothing. The book in
hand, betrays. As a feral thing would,
I shred its binding and burn through it for warmth.