The feeling inside was powder and flame

in the gun of my throat.

 

I didn’t know how to shape my fingers ‘round your wrists

so that you’d understand.

 

When I said ribbons yellow and turn,

what I meant was the village burned. Here,

 

below our feet.

In the smoke, the sound was a fast hand erasing.

 

That winter, the sky was so very white

and nothing changed

until you—

you became this other in a flash of rapid oxidation: too

 

like the whole world: where nothing

could be counted

 

or meant.

 

* * *

 

When I broke the jar, it was because I threw it at the floor.

 

Or it was because a dark creature inside that needed stopping

had welled up,

 

urging: Come,

place your mouth over mine.

 

Seal this hole. Give me a pill. Give me

a promise.


A meal.

A bullet.
A seed.

 

 

for P.C., with thanks