from Pins & Needles

Our one pink party dress is accidental, lean,
photographed. Cherry almond centered

hand soap makes me sick about flying
out at you. Mad as a wet pyramid of over-

exposed cocktail crimp. To be wed
of a kerosene smell, of souvenirs inside

the blood, drawer painted shut. Is it tacky
to tarry outside your boudoir in my galoshes?

Anything resembles a Cavendish when its teeth
and skin zipper up into revolution. To beam,

wed of the necessary hardness of a soft
palate, to be unable to say them in separation.

I take the tender of my mouth and buy
myself out of this high, soft hallway.

____

At the end of the night there’s a sugary spot
where I go to eat a chicken. Saying “infant

bones” is like a geode busted open against
a flat gray wall, untagged, unflecked. My jewels

are for my family, are what my family uses
to call me back home. That’s how deep blood

communication goes. Before the heat kicked
on, like déjà vu I remembered where

you were going. Like a bloody mouth,
when I licked back I was thinking about

keeping it local. Could you see me through
the hatching like I could see what I crossed

myself over. The narrow wet feather, black
with love, as mad as if it had its own body.