by MADELEINE MORI
You died and I knew: not to pop the blisters, not to loiter in the closet
of our young life, exalting your details, the soil on the rosettes
of your vintage wing-tips from the night you slept in the graveyard
above the drive-in, after our rift. You stole my Girl Scout knife
on your exit, split Steel Reserve tallboys at the plinth, popped the tops
and sucked, toiling around the slick tab to lick the last drop,
the sacerdotal rust. I dreamed the door of cost, a ground covered
in keys labeled stoic or sub, all fitting the lock of yes.
You swung home, the door wide open. Your tongue still chromatic,
a glissando on my clit. Morning may come without warning and take
the stars away, but then what of this mountainous knowing?
The clothes, the knife, the soil in the bed—
My juked-up shut-in, it won’t hold still.
You, this night, this sodden music.