“Frigid,” poem published by Locus Media Gallery, NYC
Lust swelling beneath your tweed, crying as you stare from a paper mache balcony, you sing the wrong opera and I hear every word. Your heart pours out, like we vomit humiliation, I inhaled your childhood and now you are pregnant with illusion. Don’t we fall in love with the most vicious of rivers? They rage into morning and torture weeping rocks.
Blindness lights your earth, wine sends shocks to your fingers, you wait until closing for me, the exquisite singer, a broken record who scratches a modern flaw. Later, with the wrong chin between my thighs, an abyss with a tongue, my head hangs back, as I imitate heartbreak.