Plan R: arrange wealthy patron, superior sperm & gravy baster without telling therapist.
Lace-less sandshoes a size too small
clamp her toes hard, shoot barbed-wire pain up her legs.
Can one create a world just by referring to it?
I love you anyway—even if there isn’t any me
or any love or even any life.
After Allen Ginsberg’s ‘First Party at Ken Kesey’s with Hell’s Angels’.
Easy to confuse fear for sex:
the snap of sweet violence
like diesel in flame
And all the years we’ve known each other,
lose and nightly find each other
return to this
are starlike, longing for orbits of their own…
Bright flowers are a bride, held dearly in the breath.
Ship lights fade away, hard as sarcophagi.
It swims by so fast, this week
by the sea: it pools into the end
of April, a slick passage for all of us
into some new world, vast and new.
Here, time insinuates itself as a damp rub against our skin
and we shiver within it, as the waiting dead must have done.
Not for me the embroidered magnolias of marriage;
I give birth to nothing but blades, arrows and death.