Coat Hangers

When he is home I am a lead statue
on a crash diet because these sharp shells
crack so easily and my toes inadvertently draw
clumsy crimson battle lines.

We live in glass boxes with wheels.
Mine is covered in fingerprints and he
has installed cordless mini-blinds in his.

He rolls over and smiles, asleep somewhere else.
I watch the sickle slice the ceiling
into hours, days, years and am reminded
of a cabin we made love in two
summers ago.

One day he will come home
and find me hanging neatly next to
the lingerie.

twice.

Head against the glass
intent on the yellow light out in the field
that is visible for the mile or so
until that left turn

and it may take us home
but, the furniture has been rearranged
by persons
not us
or are they us, now?

Did I do this?

-

Eight months of four hundred miles
up in the green and ice
water and oil spilling over if you can't move
fast enough

and you never have - not ever

     you are the first born and you will always be second

(You're my first,
but that doesn't mean the same
as the tracks your car left
in the new snow
when you told me we were near her house and that was funny.

No.
It wasn't.)

Fugue

I slip dark pieces of a shattering vase
behind my eyes
so I only see a wet shade of red.

I have the compulsion to hold my hands over my mouth
when yours is dragging heavy,
like a body.

A field of earth, churned
until it's sick and broken
and eventually becomes just
dirt and smell.