I will die at the end of this poem,
my breathing dressed in vodka,
a blue meadow gathered around my bed.
So I should tell you something—
Your mouth is a red ribbon in a field of sunlight.When I die
the animals of my body will shake their sin
and rise out of the sheets, like a zoo on Sunday.
My teeth chattering like a canopy of startled birds,
caged owls my rolling eyes,
fingers crawling tarantulas,
my tongue a fish flopping toward the toilet.
Even my organs—
the heart a sponge in red sea,
the liver a dying horse drinking from a stream
and the lungs two bats dragging their wings.I am sorry you will see this.
I did not know you would be here
listening to this oncoming train wreck,
leaning over the graveyard of this poem.
But here is a window. Let me pull the curtains back.Do you see how the wind tears the white dress
from the clothesline, sending it above
the houses? Do you see the man
across the street, unlocking the door?
He thinks the dress is the moon.
I
A woman shakes loose the ghost
of her white dress, spins in the streetlight—
her arms open like a suitcase.
II
My shoes scratch at the door.
The weather is and will be.
Silence is the breathing of my breakfast.
III
I am despair.
IV
In this dark yard
the stars chase the moon
and the night inches closer like a leopard.
V
My heart is a rodeo.
My toes are ten raindrops
and the wind turns against my body.
VI
I have a key.
VII
I have no more dreams.
Here is my key. Inside
sleeps the unsolved murder.