I am an absurdist romantic, the kind who kisses and then surfaces
with a mouthful of blood. But I have nailed my body
to so many crosses that even my own heart is no longer willing
to bear their weight. And I eat my own sadness
for dinner every night, with fork and knife, tearing it apart
like a dripping red shank of meat, down to the bone.
As you would say-my darling, I’m afraid that’s not enough.
I’ve seen men in Russia who fuck against the wall like angels,
fingers between legs between hands between teeth,
wringing out their souls
like so many tshirts on the laundry line.
Desire turns people into lunatics.
Give me the mere scent of a man and I turn into a bloodhound,
struggling to the surface like the body of a dead girl
rising from a lake, the ice cracking under the swollen weight
of her breasts, the mass of hair spilling down the neck
until I have found that man
and written his phone number down on my napkin.
I take loneliness to work every day in a brown paper bag
for lunch, then let it all out into my boss’s cubicle
when he’s not looking. I’m passionate and fiery
and I will eat you whole.
But first let me warn you that sometimes you might be
my emergency room, because I’ve already had too many
hospital visits for one year.
Don’t worry, though: the taste of your mouth
is better than Prozac any day.