Cleanse/Rot

I smelled the corpse flower crawling up my hip
and wandered—
has scent ever tasted this much like her? 

The beetles, waltzing up the stem, stop and stare 
at a rapier cut-canyon upon the breach of my chest, 
the opening full of large yellow eyes, cats, and the heels of thieves. 

The battlements of our eyelids are warding off the sandstorm rest—
we watch the finders, still-flying from the weeks 
ambling across these mahogany floors— 

they look like patterns traced on the board—
hieroglyphs we drew in the cat-claws twirl of the table leg 
told me that this 

belonged to me—her nesting branches, 
those dry moons, encased in ice 
towers, falling in love with suns.  

there’s a story about the moon, 
that when broken from earth, 
he abandoned the lights 

& waned into the nothingness between the satellite gauges, 
hiding his face behind his back while chasing 
his home round and round. 

What if I told you 
that this “gravity” 
was just love? 
 
That if our hearts could become massive 
like the planets, we would rotate 
around one another, the others 

like suns at the centers, 
moons like lovers, 
and satellites like children.  

When stars erode, and spill themselves across foreign skies, 
their bones, shifting in their graves, 
produce a cosmic rattle.  

This intrusion, angelic in nature, beats against my ribs—
it becomes sadness, becomes right, 
becomes the next worst thing from the next worst.
 
& becomes nothing at all like the green flash upon the rims, 
with the dimness of my folded pupils dripping liquid into her pools
I am metallic and brass--but too close to touch.

Jabberwock, Walk through my mind with thy imaginary hordes, 
knock upon my eardrums, 
beat the steady, parading march—to remind me again, 
 
and again, 
and again 
how to love.
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