Eye tremble. A slippery lock.
Not the kind of risk you’d want
to bet your life upon.
Lashes like the coaxing feathers
of a burlesque dancer. Peeking out
of one eye like a child
who’s checking to see if he can be seen.
You know what I’m about to say
it said. He coughed before speaking.
I’m still in love with my ex. In me,
the queasiness of grief. No worries, mate
I almost wanted to say.
The air went out, but not completely.
This coffin’s got at least half a day’s worth of air
left, I reconciled.
So why now does this love live?
Nights spent awake in lock-jawed lust.
Heart like an allergic
in a florist. Coal-raked; he raked
my coals. I’m still healing. His hands whiten
to bone in my imaginings;
I’m breathing him in as ash. It smells
like moth balls and phosphorus in the air
after a coastal storm.