I always have been sharp of teeth. I cut string with my teeth, pierce plastic bottles, make dents in bone, break bone, break skin.
But then there is this love. And it’s so awful and mysterious I don’t know how to map it. And it can’t even find a bed and breakfast.
It wants dangerous destructive events. It wants rolling hills and warm breath. It aches like a period cramp, and loses its way
like a cat suffering from dementia. But for you, and always you, this love has holes to catch more light, it’s pierced my skin star-
gazing into your jellyfish waters. This love is entirely lost in you, and wants nothing else but to float on a feather down your back,
your hips, your thighs and curve round each pornographic toe. Look what this dangerous business of love encourages–it’s fucked
up repository of poetical confession
too late. It barks at me, and whispers silvery,
in another woman’s voice, whose eyes are reading these lines as I type them.
This love, I’ve observed it leaving the house and taking books out on the lost art of compass-making, on industrial eco-friendly design…taxidermy.
And this love is a shoehorn, a colander, a monkey wrench. I don’t know what a monkey wrench looks like but I know it’s vitally
important to heart-wrenching activities. I’ve never owned a shoe-horn but there are times when I am trying on size 9 shoes with my
size 10 feet wishing for one, made from bone. And the beautifully named Colander represents my ability
to say forever and desperately mean it knowing what colanders do.
This love is letting you walk out the door,
loose on valium and without shoes,
and the woman typing this can’t help but think,
a monkey wrench, a colander, a shoe-horn just might fix
the heart wrenching scene that is slipping through my fingers,
a barefoot man and a sharp-toothed woman.