I’ll write you a book of glass
rooms: filled with dusty bottles,
a rocking chair made from sand
& lightning in sheets—walls
colored caramel like dried
blood or bourbon—imagine
wearing a suit that tastes
like iron—coins trickling
delectably down your throat—
to wear rust.
Or, perhaps, how to survive:
piecemealed atop an old horse—
eating dog food with a knife—
shotgun loaded with rock salt.
My unborn daughter—golden
and cream—like your mother—
perfect in your simplicity
of being—I hope you don’t
collect my brokenness:
I have killed all of our plants—
two cacti, one orchid—your
mother and I must look like
ratty serfs—ripping up celery
root, our ancestral carpals
and phalanges digging in
the garden dirt. At what point
does it become genocide?
Where is the government
of unborn children? And do
they enjoy calaveras?
Like a tasty sugar skull,
and just as deadly,
I’ll dream you into being.
I’ll soak you in my mind.
