on my sixty-seventh birthday i stand in the middle of a cornfield
and pry my ribcage open with two sharp rocks.
there are birds between my lungs, made mad
by wombs of semi-dark, never having learned
to fly, never having sung except
as the world lie sleeping.
these bodies falling out of my body,
tired bodies, feeble and hollow-boned,
and my body becoming the empty church,
shedding sins like snakeskin, trailing past long and heavy.
it begins to rain, so...

i. first day of summer and i throw my body into the water.
watch it sink. i left my heart quivering at the bottom of the pool
for you to find. when you came back, you held me bloodied
between your jaws. a cat with its mouse.

ii. let me step into your skin. i know all the landmarks.
your body is my hometown and i find again i am wandering
the streets with my eyes closed. here, the breeze...

in this version of the story he is saying something with his hands and he is speaking to your body. in this moment you are the same as you were centuries ago. two lovers reaching for each other and seeing salvation at the other end. the paintings on the cave wall singing your praises in animal blood. in this breath you understand what the poets were writing about and realize you want no part of it. why mar the moment...

i do believe this is the world

two fingers,
pressed against a wrist
the broken vocal chords
sing like violins
i pluck at my body and tragedy opens its throat.

spilling its song like honey.
god hides in the body of wolves
and their eyes glisten
like drunken stars,
smeared on whiskey,
forgetting their constellations,
as we forgot our homes.

where is the shotgun
that took me down?
where is the gun? where is the gun?

the weapon spills from...

long will i wait for your heart to thaw,
but i’ve been waiting longer for your limbs,
honey, little blue raincoat and yellow wellies, little
red volkswagen bug, my primary little angel, frozen
in memorial, in the middle of the song, in the middle
of the snowbank. you, always forgetting the lines,
always forgetting to walk on over, and the shiny
little promises that hang like baubles 
on the jacket you left behind. california as a woman
who strums her...

classically poetic: you throwing your sorrows
out of the window of a moving car. you write
a to-do list in your sleep & number one
is to leave me. i turn into luggage, your
favorite t-shirt, the mixtape i made,
so you might take me with you. it's easy:
grabbing the music inside myself and fleeing.
not looking back. darling, i think there's a monster
behind us, but it's alright, we're in the train now,
and you're listening to your...