Poems, etc.

the thrill of a thousand doves  all flying up at once. your hands around my throat. is this sin or singularity: the red of blood on a white, white wing. your rage,  licked away, clean as a dinner  plate so when i look down i see half bruise, half reflection. i miss you. i dread you. sometimes i am you,  it seems, only i’ve never been  able to land.

eating wild onions and the potatoes  you stole – it’s midnight in the kitchen, the rest of the world a wheeling  star. some memories have no  marrow but this one? this one i want to crack between my teeth, consume its darkness before its darkness consumes me. everything those days was like an  erotic disease, a cloying rottenness i had no desire to wash from my skin. no wound is beautiful but oh, you could have convinced me otherwise. my heart gaping,  not quite bleeding, irr