When she comes I’ll go find my hungry blade
from Morocco. When she comes, using all
the bright noise from her song just to buy me,
when she snaps her fiddle strings at long last,
when all those strings are broken and she comes
like a cartoon blow job, sloppily drawn,
unconvincing and all down the face, then
I will know that I do not belong here
with you. I will step through the font of this
unwritten poem full of amazement,
wondering why I didn’t reach for my
curved blade sooner? If there is real safety
with others I have not found it; exiles
have no home, orphans no family, though
they are both precious to the earth. It’s how
we spend our time that I find intriguing.
Eternity is a problem only
for the easily distracted. Give me
daisies, the silence of daisies. Give me
my knife so that I might bleed all over
the silence. So that when she comes I will
tell her that our aftermath has left me
curvy and hissing. There is no question,
just a bitter tea made from wild foxglove
and wormwood When she comes I don’t want to
go looking for my Moroccan stick-knife.
I will bear my belly, I have the guts
for it, though I ask of you do not feel
sad or cry or try to argue with me.
She is coming and I want enough time
to spill everything all over this page.