[unnamed]

Often when we say ‘heat’ we mean ‘love’,

but our mouths are too shy to make the shape of the word.

I’ll describe it for you, baby. Hm. Imagine a sea

of triangles. It is not blue

or green, but

it is all triangles. Tons of them.

Wait.

Was it squares? Octagons? Dodecahedrons?

I think the shape is that of want

as it breaks on the shore of my eyes,

fragmentary and aching. Pained.

The curve of your neck and then the stark blue of the sky.

She read me a poem and called it love.

I read her a poem and I couldn’t name it,

not ever, not even if I stayed up all night

and then some.

Anyway, I’m tired of the pawing. Come over. Touch me.

Whatever. I need things to be alright now.

Touch me all over. Twist the knife.

Find the softest place and stick it in there, will you?

The things, they never are, and sometimes the hurting is better

than the vastness, better than that terrible plain

stretching out in front of me and saying do you want him to fuck you,

or destroy you? Do you know the difference?