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!

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