Postcard with Phobia
A man shares space with his skull:
One eye open, one eye holed. The Rose
of Delirium lacerates the sallow elegy
of his cheeks. His lips stutter
in grayscale—a smudge of blood
on a chrome bumper.
It’s simple really: I say the feathers
in my mouth and mean the gravity
of your ghost softened my tongue.
I meant not to remember you
at all—not your sad, waspish song
or your pilgrim’s bid for the polar dark.
Oh, my impossible wife—I never
meant to love you