Such a shame. She is not what he desires,
just locum tenens: one who for a time takes
the place of another. Everything he ever wanted
is already gone: red-headed, voluptuous, the
type of girl only obtained through indirect motions.
His wish list: fleur-de-lis, miter joint, speaking
tube. The girl that broke his heart.
That match. That noose. That tower. That falling.
Sad but true, her mouth was reconstructed on
charity – no private rooms with medical coupons,
all her teeth pulled in one visit, everyone smoking
and watching from the waiting room. This bucket.
This ax. This stump. This shotgun. Clicking teeth
and boulevards, wired her jaws shut for her
own good. The story really got ugly when
eight hundred million tadpoles swam her
body pink and busy, she kissed each one right
on the lips but nothing stuck. That bread.
That hand. That knife. That stone.
Stupid knot of blood. A sad cult assembles
in their bedroom whenever they make love.
She nails a photograph of a Carrier Pigeon
above his bed but he never takes the hint.
This branch. This rock. This wing. This bone.
Draw your legs up, the century is over.
(Originally published in Opium Magazine)
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