You are an exit wound,
the extra shot of tequila,
the tangled knot of hair that must be cut out.
You are the cell phone ringing in a hushed theatre,
pebble wedged in the sole of a boot,
the bloody hangnail.
You are, just this once.
You are flip-flops in a thunderstorm,
the boy's lost erection,
a pen gone dry.
You are my father's nightmare,
my mother's mirage.
You are a manic high.
(Which is to say:
you are a bad idea.)
You are herpes despite the condom.
You are, I know better.
You are pieces of cork floating in the wine glass.
You are the morning after,
(whose name I can't remember,
still in my bed).
The hole in my rain boots
vibrator with no batteries.
You are, shut up and kiss me.
You are naked wearing socks,
mascara bleeding down laughing cheeks,
the wrong guy buying me a drink.
You are the typo in an otherwise brilliant novel,
sweet-talk into unprotected sex,
the married coworker,
my stubbed toe.
You are not new or uncommon,
not brilliant or beautiful.
You are a bad idea.
(Rock star in the back seat of a taxi,
burned popcorn,
top shelf, at half price.)
An exit wound.
A word I cannot translate.
A name I cannot say.
The poem I cannot write.
You are everything I want.
the extra shot of tequila,
the tangled knot of hair that must be cut out.
You are the cell phone ringing in a hushed theatre,
pebble wedged in the sole of a boot,
the bloody hangnail.
You are, just this once.
You are flip-flops in a thunderstorm,
the boy's lost erection,
a pen gone dry.
You are my father's nightmare,
my mother's mirage.
You are a manic high.
(Which is to say:
you are a bad idea.)
You are herpes despite the condom.
You are, I know better.
You are pieces of cork floating in the wine glass.
You are the morning after,
(whose name I can't remember,
still in my bed).
The hole in my rain boots
vibrator with no batteries.
You are, shut up and kiss me.
You are naked wearing socks,
mascara bleeding down laughing cheeks,
the wrong guy buying me a drink.
You are the typo in an otherwise brilliant novel,
sweet-talk into unprotected sex,
the married coworker,
my stubbed toe.
You are not new or uncommon,
not brilliant or beautiful.
You are a bad idea.
(Rock star in the back seat of a taxi,
burned popcorn,
top shelf, at half price.)
An exit wound.
A word I cannot translate.
A name I cannot say.
The poem I cannot write.
You are everything I want.