I lost my voice in a race horse side track
calling the numbers down.
Calling the numbers down we rode
and we rode hard to the end.
With borrowed sweat I adored
the spotlight truth of your beautiful flaws,
including your refusal to see mine.
I just wanted a room with a door
(no view necessary
it is painted in memory:
the rain
the track
the promise.)
Even as you sliced me thin
under microscopic lens even as
you projected all my magnified ugliness,
turned it turned it
turned it on me
I swore I would never
curse your footprints
only your grave.
Yet you still walk the earth
surely you do, I would have heard
the caller cry, seen the torn ticket fall.
But I can’t wait for your grave.
Barn-sour gelding,
maybe it was you who never loved me (or anything
except that soft sad space you press
when you are feeling sorry for yourself.)
Maybe the promise of immortality
as I opened my fertility to you, milk
spilling from breasts into your return.
Or maybe you loved the reasons to grump about
while pawning stories of your semi-hard cock
forcing itself anywhere it could fit.
Chasing the flag
my drink spills on the seat
cranky old man mutters his curse,
moves down two rows.
