MUSEUM FOR THE ASKING
The heart can only lament in cuneiform. Blunt
carvings on a clay tablet, which, independent
of their malformations, settle on the material
for anachronistic scrutiny. The heart
in prefix—like a warrior’s sharpened teeth
around the necks of the enemy.
Boot prints on plantain leaves; Morse code
of spears for the unquenchable defeat—
hypotenused, stiff.
A temple of orchids
overlooks a mass grave of temples,
as two figures flee from each other
because they are what’s left of sustenance.
Hearts on chapped lips;
sun’s inversions. The archeologist
disinters the tablets—telling his therapist
it’s the rocks he’s after.
//
FORAMINA
On our first dates, I drag his body
aimlessly across damaged cornfields.
A returning heartbeat could fester a romance.
We head out to the industrial
sector of the city, our preferred hangout
spot to growl at each other
lines from Law & Order, Great Expectations—
anything by Eliot or David Foster Wallace.
Inside chicken coops,
before the bus arrives, I inject him
with massive transfusions of false recollections.
Fellow passengers on the bus envy me.
He barks at them, & they feed him glances.
As we sit at the churrascaria, he drools
on his Christmas sweater over another
ripped divorcé—a war survivor, this time.
My boyfriend hunts
for casualties in the restroom,
as the waiter decants holy water in my glass.
I squeeze shards between my palms of his broken moon
for the werewolves to remember.
When death returns from the restroom,
he pulls out a credit card ridden with maggots—
asks the server if they accept
American Express or Discover.
Try killing a flesh-eating man-shadow
& the patriarchy will hurl him back to life
in your poems. He will thank Jesus
for the Last Supper. He will linger
long after decomposition.
I confidently carve holes in his chest
without his attention for detail:
Holes in the shape of cruise ships to the Bahamas.
Holes like family
reunions in Nevada.
In every cavity of his body
I place reminders of who I am—
he won’t read them.
As we promenade home from the movies,
after catching a flawed remake of a classic,
the moon sheds its clinical
surveillance over our skins.
There will be sequels, he gripes
the last time I understand him.
On his dead lap, I plant sesame
seeds before resting my head. A fly
buzzes inside our bedroom.
The dead, too, can wish to die anew.
//
CASUALTIES OF ART
A plane crashes into a bike. The front part of the bike lands in a river; the back, in
a desert of glass. No one survives.
The clouds swarmed the sky like emerald cobras. The gray choked
on our prayers for rain.
I would relinquish my thousand masks
to seal the pits in my mother’s smile.
Near the site of the crash, a vulture perches on a desiccated branch.
By sundown,