Sometimes, I paint my lips red, and wait by the door
A grey cat sort of longing
The dark chord strumming musician
of Picasso’s bluest phase
A curved spine woman, once modestly
assured in her fleshy self
now
bony, curled
around knees and dissonance.
I just want to know you better now.
Wrap your scarf about my neck
and show you my holiness.
My childhood.
A wintered and withered
Kansas stream.
Lace up your skates. Let’s marry
ourselves to the creek, shallow and icy,
until our ankles, lungs, lips
ache.
"I think it's strange that you think
I'm funny."
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