Lips kissing up
May 13, 2012
The Actress Who Loved Me
Letters. In a box. Filled with history. She doesn’t like oral sex. Everything has to be written in brail. And just when I think I’ve solved her mystery. She tells me she’s been married before.
I don’t like it. When she drinks. Her appetite frightens me. I’m afraid of when she’s finished swallowing my DNA. She’ll start eating my memories.
We had children. Hundreds. Scurrying around at our feet. All of this poetry is a distraction. A Leonard Cohen manifesto. A way to convince yourself that you’ve said something of some importance. And all the time I can feel her lips kissing up. Behind me.