BAM Bank

you taught me how to open my lips sober

but you let the grass slice your tongue

to make me smile. you have no claim to rationality,

only a better speaking style.

I kissed roses and ignored your letters,

I was a bastard, I wanted to dwell in the blank

half-page after the end of a chapter. the creamy reflections.

you sent the queen of hearts in the mail

which  i placed in my wallet instead of a picture

because your face never secured a place in my dreams.

you tugged at my navel, i wanted the small of your back

forever. the texts never penetrated my narration.

too literary to live. i never wrote you a poem.

on purpose, because my ache was always intellectual.

no translation necessary. we needed to fight

but instead I was vitamin numb and water cold

my guilty paper cuts until finally, finally

I could hate you, just a little bit.

you drew charts and wrote lists

to file us away as a learning experience

you have a talent for losing your way

i have a talent for avoiding intuition

i hope you tracked every lost mile,

because i could trace the contours of your breast

but not remember any moment that you treasured

before the open kitchen, with its soap and hysteria.