the night is darker by the day, and the
multiplying stars the consolation prize for the
stiffness in my back, the tightness in my legs,
my old scars.
unrecognized like Cuba,
reminding me of what I’ve known all along.
Homeland Security should hire the Title9 Frog Bra to work in Gitmo.
under pressure my breasts tell everything.
I am eating historical romance like Chex Mix,
digging for chocolate; ignoring the pretzels.
Nonsensical sexual physics is of no consequence.
A little bit Moulan Rouge -funny.
Now that I mention it,
I am wanting a chocolatier truffle that tastes like a kaleidoscope;
still I know months like these I take the flat-orange flavored Kit Kat I can get.
The near-week of hog wild thundering goddamnitalltohellIknowwhatIwant
screaming from every cell has been reckless.
It slams into my gut
and turns me into wreckage and once I am weakened
hormonal abandonment taking unlatched-metal-barn-door-in-a-windstorm
swings at me.
I wake up leaking blood.
headed quickly toward empty.
a warning light comes on
but pages of bastard children
sired on willing women
by randy men are impotent after all.
I set aside my romance novels
and bad chocolate
and lie here bleeding.