heat lightning triptych

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heat lightning triptych

i.

i suck myself from the spine of your collar stay, plastic welts

raised from my teeth. the bone between knuckle and wrist.

i reach at a cemetery behind your neck. you flinch. ask me

what i think about heat lightning and i will paw the air

between your fingers–

on the phone with my ex, you say, she might take this badly,

but. your friends laugh the bus into a speed bump so i chew

my teeth into a honeycomb, give you one earbud, and croon

until my lips bleed,     all at the same time.

ii.

i cut my fist with my tongue, hope your mouth will spring back

from my fingers. either i accidentally bite my lip, or my hand

is a knife. you pick.

in nine hours we never pass a cemetery, but i point at your collar

and you think i want to touch        your throat. you,

who surrendered yourself to christ, love raw beef,

hate the rich. i say   my ex once suggested

i fuck myself with a toothbrush. i took it like an olive branch.

anyway.

i don’t remember crying, but i know you wiped away my tear,

pointed at the moon.

iii.

since i got home i have been trying to tear out everything

that was never there–          retainers, earrings, tampons.

i forget how you took out your collar stay,

our backs cracking at the same time. how

i laughed  as you whispered of gardens

scorched by lightning, your teeth sharpened

by my neck.           anyway,

my pen scrapes your earwax from my headphones.

i am sick of noise and this endless devouring–

how you burn anything round to a moon.