--IT’S GONNA BE FOREVER OR IT’S GONNA GO DOWN IN FLAMES

Barbwire Forgeries

 

Last night the owls cried in their sleep

because there is no frame for our mad breaths,

our bleeding carousel tongues.

Our humus soaks up too much gasoline now

and is no longer a savior.

So we wither white,

we molt,

our skins becoming skeins of sticky forgeries.

You reminded me that cobalt is the taste of torture,

a water-boarded pulse.

You reminded me that crimson is lighter fluid,

the brand of your last lover wrapped in barbwire.

Soon we will return our shrill attention

to the butcher block or thirsty guillotine

while every wall screams

See what you made me do?