Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007
In the lights, the blade in his hand
resembles a key. Resembles a cure.
I hide it beneath my dress when he sleeps,
place it against my thigh, where the alloy
makes my mouth hurt, makes the horses
shake in their pens. When I’ve swept the tent
of every smile, it comes. Glistening, endless.
Nausea like a parade of pink ponies
all the girls throwing roses and garlands.
We build a reliquary out of incendiary things,
while he dazzles me with cut-glass,
the tiniest blue bottles.
Always a rushing in my ears when
he lifts the hair from my neck,
a shiver when he cuts off the braid.