Brackish Rhapsody
I.
Didn't I meet you
once, in Stockholm,
didn't you syndrome
or syndicate terror
into me, your ostrich,
your mendicant,
didn't I wake up
with your constellation
inscribed on my thighs,
my fingerprints?
Or was it Stendhalian?
Because ill-timed coins,
spent to empty bottles,
delivered me to theater
in the armor, protective
as a turned-out pocket,
of the Order of Love
that Knows No Latitudes.
II.
Words you never
pronounced to learn
correctly cough
my ribcage
and ulcer my veins
like a yolk
bordering its spurning
in the skillet
on a perfect
Sunday morning
as a papier-mâché,
full-frontal hangover
begins from behind
and eggs its way
off the bed, to the sofa
to the floor,
where all the fun is,
where our language
doesn't have a gun or
any rules to recognize.
III.
Our grammar,
especially
the soft, prolonged ahs
like the long, slow slough
of hurricane hours,
and the sharper, shorter ohs
that crack like rain
on the windowpanes,
the windy shudders
in our conjunctions!