N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 0 7
Must’ve Been the Fall When I Met My Husband
I barely noticed him, because the slut in me
could stretch goodbyes taut as banjo strings
watching Dan. Unrequited lust
occurred to me but I was there to soak my panties.
Rick was cutting lime. What a thoughtful guy
stocking Dan’s fridge, cracking jokes
at all the parties. I picked at a hole in my jeans
until Dan walked away. Outside,
someone mentioned Rick’s girlfriend had moved,
left him with the kittens and electric bills.
I remember the porchlight spread around
his shrugging shoulders. I was dragging my feet
to the car through leaves. They looked grey
in that weakened darkness.
The day after
my first acid trip
I discover an alleyway
full of mulberries
and driftwood and barking dogs.
I know, I know, I know
as I fold plundered bottlecaps
into a makeshift envelope
addressed to you
that the beetles, though dead,
will smash themselves
against the shiniest pieces of blue glass,
that my scraps of poetry
will dust the butterfly's wing
into a naked slice of skeleton,
that you will turn over these broken things
in the slats of light
cutting your bedroom floor
and hold them
in a fist until they crumble.