The Clanks


In your arms, gravity turned off, a storm
that burned so quickly it left fingerprint
stains on the wind, furious passion

between lift and fall reflecting the entire
else. Your hair whispered about a slightly
older man, about holding the red barns

you painted on the wall closer to his heart
than blood, warned to leave breadcrumbs
in the hallway to guide us back. When you

stepped naked into my mouth like a scaled,
eight-breasted Gomorrah, flayed for the crime
of being too pretty, a million glowing bird

eyes circumcised the mute darkness with crude
tools. You granted me a wish to succeed, whiskey
to salve the enormity of parting, the wordlessness

of a forgotten name in a vertigo of syllables,
delirium trapped in a porcelain egg.
Tomorrow will be day one. Again.

The bug-bitten sunrise and stiff pronouns
will dig snow angels against our bald mattress.

Apeiron Review 2012STORM