Love says to me, he says, bring your teeth and claws.
Come riding with your hooves and nails. Bring the bitches
with their hydra heads. I have fought worse for less.
Love says to me, he says, bring your baddest dogs, their
gaping maws and flymeat breath. Their studded collars
strung with carats, their break-away leashes, their scrambleclaws.
Love says to me, he says, bring your grenades, your long-snouted
sniper rifle. Bring your acid wash, your broken-jawed tomorrows,
your dragon-downed sword, your seven-year mirror.
Love says to me, he says, you can leave the flowers outside to die.
Leave the tin-foil hearts, the sicksweet sugar, the fucking poetry.
None of that will protect you, he says to me.
Love says to me, he says, I’ll kill you with kisses. Murder you with
real. I’ll wrap your ankles in the barbs of my hands and tuck away.
The horses will lower to their knees for me and let me astride.
The dogs will eat bacon out of my hands. The snakes will coil
for me, sleep in baskets while I harp them tunes. You know this.
You’ll be afraid, he says to me. But come anyway, he says to me.
I stroke the dog’s heads, let their breath fog my glasses.
The horses are out to pasture, dappled down. The hydra,
who knows what the hydra does? Who knows what any
of us does in the face of even one true-spoken tongue?
Image taken with iphone on the back porch in the afternoon light
Words written on the couch in a pink dress
Time Taken 10 minutes or so, starting at 9pm
Brain on love, lust, work, travel, writing and the beauty of harps