and I am mute with need, my shaking hands filled with
cast-off shards of iron and agate, glass sticking into skin,
blood welling from the edges and you sink deep. somewhere,
I left my resistance out to dry.
I will pull my ribcage apart and let you eat, replace my red-running
muscle with silver wires, that wretched heart with a canary
stained with iodine, leave me packed stiff with gauze
and settling in for the winter, racked with longing
and marveling at the chill.
it's supposed to be spring and still I run through gasping cold,
ash-brown trunks blushing green, maple buds burning
against the sky like the embers of every lonely cigarette
that has flared between my lips at night. at dawn. at civil twilight.
you have coiled between my thighs to hold the ashtray and
even wordless, my hollows and edges limned electric,
there is no difference between the summoning
and the invitation.