you. I might have been your firebird, kohl-
smeared & looped like ankh, hot as the stone pulse
of amethyst. I might have named you Romulus.
I might have canoodled you under the shadow
of the Megadeth monolith, might have managed a motion
picture soundtrack from the fire escape. The answer
to this is glam rock, rag bear, & I was born
a woman, bitterly hymnal. I am not one killer but multiple,
volunteer dowager. I would never name you John.
Ardor permits so little, really, but the noble
lot was not for me. C’mon, Fred, give me a two-step
tonight. Let me be your blue-eyed piece.
There’s no one to shamble with anymore; all I need
is a kook or two to kick the shit. Parcel post or Marcel
Proust?, the Doppler effect’s patron saint. We
could rob a bank & nip a brass flask, heavy metal.
Slap back to a snakeshack upstate, fictive as the mist.
It’s over, that’s a windfall, I know. You’re only my asymptote.
I’m a syntactical hack. Forgive me. Grace isn’t my M.O.
- By Laura Goode