and now i see this face before me
that could launch a thousand ships
bring my heart back to your island
as the sand beneath me slips
though i burn up in your presense
and i know now how it feels
to be weakened by achilles
with you always at my heels
-indigo girls
(I pretend you never lost your hair,
your skin remained the color of peaches
and honey, I don’t want to picture
you bleached and lifeless as salt. But,
if I must imagine you in death,)
You are a white dress
pinned to a clothes line—
dancing uncontrollably,
filled with wind, so bright
it hurts our eyes.
III. A Few Rumors Concerning Mr. Potato Head
Bet in his diary there are blueprints of his faces. Yep and a little arrow pointing to where his eyeball rolled from the page. Yep, and bounced once on the floor. Bet a diamond glistens in the ear floating in the mason jar on his desk. Bet his collar-bone is made of gold. Bet he’s never heard of Mary Shelly— Hell, bet he can only read sheet music! Goddamn, Brother, Prince just changed his name! Doctors say latex is ageless. Doctors say the body is nothing but money. Bet his tongue quivers in a pillbox. Bet his tongue is shy, in debt, and depressed. Bet he sings: Praise be to Edison’s light bulb and the scalpel! Bet he sings: Praise be to the nurse maid who sells her womb! Bet he sings: Praise be to hyper realism, hypodermics, John Merrick and the poise of mannequins! Bet it’ll be a closed casket in the end. And enough flowers to cover Texas. And a dozen biographies in the first month! Yep, bet no one finds the diary. Bet no one finds the face.
- Terrance Hayes
you find the smallest pore on their cheek and name it.
you count how many eye lashes go missing at the end
of the day and mourn each one.
you measure precisely how many kisses it takes to get
from the elbow to the wrist.
you study their knees, meticulously.
when they first teach you how god
created man by looking in the mirror,
tracing his finger over his reflection
on the dust, your body from dirt,
your mother snapped like the stem
of a flower from your father’s rib,
will you have nightmares?
you are ohio
so I had this dream we
were a map of the midwest.
you were ohio & I was
michigan & I was all over
you & it was so fucking hot
your spine was on fire all
the way down to cincinnati,
& god damn if that ain’t
the most depressing thing
because I knew I’d wake
up wishing I was kentucky
& your ankles were a river
wrapped around my throat,
but it don’t matter either way
because motherfuck if you aren’t
always telling me the same thing—
it’s not happening, uh-uh,
not in this time zone, brother,
or any other place
- Nate Slawson
i thought we were
worth untangling.
you got stuck
on the knots.
