WISDOM TEETH

toffee nosed

Your hair are like the great cedars of Lebanon, you sugarcoat me a Wilde bedtime story, the long black nights curtained thick behind my black hair. Fingertips taking two ribs full of bruises right! You are like the moon, sodden and sultry, like the first waft of ether. The tiptoe of a plague, with percocet eyes and tinsel honeysuckle hedges, bluebirds. Strep throat succulents, I get mauled by a bear, yes, softly, softer than your winedrunk hands anyway. I left my blue satin bathrobe in a pile by the door, a promise like lace and a taunt like steel. A swarm of locusts arrive in town, and you've watched every disaster movie since Chernobyl, but today you sleep in. Rum-soaked twilight, only crocuses can save me at dawn. A tab of pain
repainting a room, placing flowers back on their stalks, taping over the gaps. Girl gilded with cherry and mint, burning so slow and bright, she looks like she's escaping Heaven. Some places she's allowed, some I'm not. La fatigue, sponsor officiel de ma vie. Flirting with Death, on a warm Parisian morning, overlooking the Louvre, He treats me like a pink Starburst, a raw and sweet and nectarine blood orange, precariously steep in the neck-deep waters. If Michelangelo had a go at you, he would not have found much, pretty boy. Materialise tender pulpy rosè velveeta air conditioner billowed ripe accolades. My mouth like a Santorini sunset,
my mouth like an Ibiza evening,
my mouth like a Koh Samui full moon bash,
my mouth like. Grandeur peach time. Weep and call it singing. Bivalve juicy diaphragm riverbeds to curtail a spore-garden Formation. Splish splash in the canals of the lavender-coated bath salts. A dusky pink, balmy sundown surges, for attracting honeybees, so that they slurp swollen tidbit serums. Numb feet, soaked clothes, devouring the humbug soirée on the oily rush of the soft frills like a plush aubade. Dangle like vines, dwindling,
I can't grip, I can't stop gripping. Weightless, at ease, and in the name of all that is Sylvia Plath, it is dusk, and I am praying. It is melancholy's breathturn, far more sweetsounding than a lyre, gold golder than gold. I know you are God-like, I know you will give away nothing. Oh would that I were bark! And you, dropping in my shade, dew to bedew me! Cinnabar assiduous grinding, of rubbing smoothly on each other, of language of the roots of rushes tangled together in the ooze, marrow cells twinning themselves. The sibilants and the gutturals, the mouth against skin, vivid and splashing and wilting. Her name so like the salt depths of the sea. Of the honeycomb marshes. We cling to each other with a mild dustbowl lily pond desperation. I am the stucco--rose beige-lidded daughter of Hyacinth. Her face was upturned like a fresh, luminous flower, faintly glinting, not more so lovely, than small white single poppies.

we make you beautiful when we look at you

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