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[wpaudio url=”/audio/8_8/Peak.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
No more conversations about fucking in the deer blind,
no more deep throat maneuvers or month-long make-up sex.
No more beginning love with erasure or ending with tattoos.
My banishments pile up, outlaw by outlaw. I curl up, lash out,
sequester your come-on with a whip’s speed. Glowing, you
reminisce on how your tongue could split my thighs, how
you could trick me into bed. This is hard-on nostalgia. This is
fierce unhooking. I say: if I am this light-stripped, I’d rather not be.
But you, with your need, your happy groin begging for a cleft,
you ache to unshut me, to re-wed me, but I am no simple
box. Not porch but back door. Not synonymy. Not bed or
baby or fuck but long and blue and wind. Not love anymore,
but uncoupling, primal and good. Spoilt love, here is the anti-
cocoon bucking silk. Here is modern astronomy breaking its physics.
Here is the latitude of my mouth emptying you out canker by canker.