over

My mind is full of mountain memories

overshadowed by curses and aphrodisiacs,

dynamite ginger tendrils and fortified hearts,

airline ticket orgasms and baby doll endearments,

oceanic arguments and veto competitions,

alcoholic tendencies and blueberry pancake adversities,

dog hair romance and belly laughter,

forty-nine good things, and fifty-one bad,

unattained ideals and hide-and-seek bliss,

quicksand pentacles and jungle poker games,

haunted house dreams and ex-girlfriend instant messages,

lemon-scented reality TV and campfire-lit lovemaking,

aloe vera soaked apathy and foreign taxi impatience,

telegram currency and bipolar discoveries,

beanbag chair thrills and newly-carpeted sorrows,

cancerous sarcasm and viral commitment issues,

Facebook introductions and incendiary adieus,

and the way I stopped looking at you

with the adoration of a child.

favors

I think we have had enough of ourselves

dashing about and posing in sweet entropy.

You were the Ace of Cups

sitting there at the end like a period,

or a new sentence,

or a death sentence.

I have exhausted my organs

in vitriolic distinctions and

ancient markings.

My body is writ with your pictures

like the valleys of Nazca,

you have carved me

with your hummingbird,

your albatross,

your spaceman,

and I am staring at the blood

running down my hands

and arms

and legs

in wonder

at our gasps and entreaties and

war.

Just war with me, won’t you?

I beg you to plot against me.

Position your pieces and topple me,

because once you rid yourself of the

Queen

you will be victorious.

Don’t deny me.

Just give me this one favor;

attack, and rip, and chew, and kill.

Otherwise all my fancies

fly away like Icarus

to drown.

riled and gentle

“someone

has your name

written on a piece of paper.”

camels and jewels.

fornication.

you know.

honey.

it’s not a joke.

you never thought so.

it isn’t funny.

it isn’t the first time

you’ve thrown my scars at me.

flailing limbs.

am i your whore?

treading ground i don’t

belong.

i don’t belong.

maybe we don’t

speak the same language

after all.

don’t categorize me on dusty shelves

with the rest of them;

betrayer.

you can have all my names.

i will carve them

into your fingertips.

and i will still be able

to fly.