In those five-inch stilettos,
she thought you were fierce.
You wanted to patent-leather wound.
But I was watching the entire time.
Rubber suit, leather crotch, paper cut,
lucky dragon, loose buttons, dirty feet.
If this is the nadir, my wrist is already broken;
hit me with everything—
slanted wigs, rotten fruit, shattered glass.
But no more on my knees at the keyhole.
No smeared-lip vendetta. Your nomad cunt
keeps coming back, but the locks have frozen,
the whip gone missing.
Once I sat alone in a velvet theater.
I imagined you inside me.
That was enough.
Tiny fist curled, like a bird:
wings beating in the nest.
A pocketful of feathers.
Most accidents happen close to home.
This poem was previously published in Poemmemoirstory Issue 9.