Spoiling my track record
I have wished for a time machine
Three times in three days this week.
Julie asks me to speak to my parts like
They are my childhood body.
I think about the crimes it committed
Against its most adamant admirer
And decide not to dress my fear in feathers.
I clean out my garage and open the floodgates.
One hundred women I could have helped
If I had known better.
One hundred sisters whose kinship I burnt to dust.
They’re funny, the things that I will try to
Shove back into the toothpaste tube.
I cannot make myself believe that it is
Difficult to scream “fire!” with
Strong hands around your neck.
Julie tells me to walk through the ruins
And pity the child who built cities from wood.
I consider it a mercy killing.
Your face arrives on cue and that
Familiar itch crawls across my skin.
You were never quite real to me,
Always urging upwards a
Rising bubble from your depths.
To the shape-shifting alchemist trapped in the Column Still:
I’m sorry for filling the mass grave with more poems about
What your gravity feels like from far away but
I am reconciling the fact that
You don’t wear me anymore.
Every time I cook for someone I love
You are the one stirring the pot.
Would you believe me if I told you I’m sorry,
Do you bruise every time your name
Rests on my tongue?
Even after all this time?