Bitter herbs. The taste of aluminum.
Last night’s sentimental discharge
had me heaving.
It’s the quiet that gets you in the end.
Sometimes, it’s as if I’m a papier mâché
sculpture of a human skull,
hollow and burlesque.
Sometimes, it’s as if I’m tap dancing
over an abyss with a pillow case over my head.
It’s never been like this, though.
There’s a thimble of whiskey
in my heart with your name on it,
etched in an impeccable font.
The forest has taken us farther
from safety than we
ever could have imagined.
The bits of change and receipts
we’d left as a trail to lead us back
have conveniently gone missing.
You called me your human disaster,
so I’m returning the favor
in the form of an anonymous
brown package. What it contains
is up to you – caustic twine.
Allusions to Barbara Guest.
Tools for hunting and gathering.
You’re capable of conceptualizing, oui?
A ménage à trois has developed
between the facets of my personality,
and it’s only a matter of time
before someone plays favorites.
Chatter from the street punctures
a lung in the clouds.
Now, we leave nothing to chance.