boys (excerpt)

My eyes are dry

But my flesh is hurricane

That shakes and is not shaken by

The likes of your extinguishing muzzle

My soul is a natural disaster

It burns

And it ruins

And it floods, and it freezes

And it, as it runs rabid, is disruptively unbound and unchained

I do not write about boys who would smother me beneath the tin can of some hapless gas fire

I am not a bunsen burner

Or matchstick flicker

I am a tsunami of depth and chaos and size

Your shadowy birdcage was unprepared for

–Are all the things I wanted to say

To the boy I wrote this about

Bad feminist, I hiss at myself

As I dream of the arms attached to the boy

I wrote this about

 

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hey

maybe in a year you’ll find the dried root

in the folds of your intestines

that’s given itself to fear and detachment

and you’ll finally know

where to plant it–

or maybe you’ll be embarrassed to look at him

because he’s hung you out

to dry

on the wires of anticipation.

either way–

you’ll still be older

in the same body,

hopefully driving the same tongue

into different dances,

verbal

and sweaty

and numb.