Give me two people, any two, a formula of them, a kind
of paint-by-numbers: four legs, two heads, a bucket full of fingers.
For kicks, give them the same eyes, like Rodin did; make their mouths
the same—for the fun of watching one mouth give in to itself.
Once assembled, put a burn on them, a kind of music
that they can’t write down. Let them sit there kissing, those
two, falling in love, but—oh—what are we going to do with
the rest of it? What can happen that hasn’t already made us sad?
They will keep dying, the whole time, their toes growing
into the ground—no need to premeditate it, they already know.
Draw their feet on the apartment steps. Yes, the apartment, remember
the kitchen filled with smoke? But the cigarette butts—where shall
we cram them? How about her mouth, yes, her mouth is like the next room,
identical in size, where the bed is, where the guitar is stuffed underneath
it. Yes, stuffed under the bed like a fact.
Let these two people listen to the police sirens (draw
the ears like blunt knives, yes, scrape both sides of the knife across
their faces). Remember the sirens—the ones we made ourselves listen
to, the cars flushing down Bushwick Avenue. It goes on all night, like
brushstrokes, until everything’s black. Yes, they’re both
in bed now, yes, the bodies are crumbled like newspapers.
The light I refused to turn off is on, it stays on,
and her eyes linger on his long expanse of leg—that whiteness,
the fuzz of his skin suspended over his body. She’s reading, remember,
with the same eyes, the ones he sleeps with. But no, she’s going
to touch him, she’s reaching there, the thought of it crawling
back to her, the smell of sleep pushed into her chest. Her face, her
tiny mouth, is close enough to say wake, to feel his hair push
across her cheek, but thank God she doesn’t say it. Remember that
nothing happens. She holds the word between her teeth, this time like
an artist. The silence is making headway.
We know what she’s writing—but who wants
to read it? I'll put a purple bloom here instead. I don’t know
why it’s purple—but oh—it’s for you. Laugh.
Call it a bruise. Call it a kind of photosynthesis. Call it the light
that has been eaten.