Come to me
with palms upturned:
I’ll hold your hand through it.
I’ll wade through thin fluid.
Churn up a sick stomach.
Could you forgive me this once?
bed for a sad serpent.
Swallow your small portion.
Suspend belief, just because.
I picture you as a dog in my youth
that I kissed away, with the front of my fender.
Nothing to bury, but the weight it carries
when she blinks through silence and asks,
“What’s inside of your heart?”
Everyone I go inside
show signs that they will start to die.
What does that make me? Make me, make me …
Kill for it. I’ll be the king of
spit shining all of the dreams you leave for
rotting, laughing, gnawing, sleeping through.
Let’s sleep on through.