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Description
it's her belated birthday and she is heavy and fixed. pearls on her earlobes, sun-slit wrists. rough and ridged and

rain, rain only makes it worse.

we didn't see the moon last night. stippled night, it was, birds like a denial of those sweet hot stars. the moon, heavy and fixed; a woman with child.

the way her feet hit the floor, those eyes and the matted strip of their lashes. they tell you, some things should be best bled out. there is color intact beneath the ruined cheeks, blue and bleach and washaway, washashore pink.

she sits and smiles— too pale and low, that backward bend. count your shame two by two and forget it, forget it, run.

some-days she is brittle. to-day she feels as a bruise must feel— pounding and dull and—
you do know that bruises fade, right?

musk-milk thighs, chest almost concave. that voice! you with your cut-color idols and their smooth whiny lyrics sung to sell, you and your stern sunday god. tell him leave me in my hell, with pandora and her empty box and eager hands; see how she opens me.

if they watched when it was raging autumn. that round still crater-cheeked girl, loose strings of red round her arm, and i such a pitiful nothing. would what you choose, to write but not write well, or to not write at all and live with that; she in her pleats, cold and found, my keeper that mouth and its slick puddle shine and her stillness i could not, could not, contain. would you believe it was mine, she was mine, i loved her and the rain and i forgot it, forgot it, ran.

how could you live with that?

Description
it's her belated birthday and she is heavy and fixed. pearls on her earlobes, sun-slit wrists. rough and ridged and

rain, rain only makes it worse.

we didn't see the moon last night. stippled night, it was, birds like a denial of those sweet hot stars. the moon, heavy and fixed; a woman with child.

the way her feet hit the floor, those eyes and the matted strip of their lashes. they tell you, some things should be best bled out. there is color intact beneath the ruined cheeks, blue and bleach and washaway, washashore pink.

she sits and smiles— too pale and low, that backward bend. count your shame two by two and forget it, forget it, run.

some-days she is brittle. to-day she feels as a bruise must feel— pounding and dull and—
you do know that bruises fade, right?

musk-milk thighs, chest almost concave. that voice! you with your cut-color idols and their smooth whiny lyrics sung to sell, you and your stern sunday god. tell him leave me in my hell, with pandora and her empty box and eager hands; see how she opens me.

if they watched when it was raging autumn. that round still crater-cheeked girl, loose strings of red round her arm, and i such a pitiful nothing. would what you choose, to write but not write well, or to not write at all and live with that; she in her pleats, cold and found, my keeper that mouth and its slick puddle shine and her stillness i could not, could not, contain. would you believe it was mine, she was mine, i loved her and the rain and i forgot it, forgot it, ran.

how could you live with that?