Poetry has always been my post-mortem
the sterile cold of the scalpel felt
from beneath the latex glove
so many putrefied layers of the body assuring me
no pulse will shake my blade from its course.
I am always best in retrospect
somewhere taking inventory
in the dead letter office, weepy
with the dust of the archives
my eyes mistake for sentiment.
With you, I never spent time in reflection
adjudicating long lost cases
stewing in the bitter broth of
everything unsaid and undone.
The recording of an elegy echoes
with a more powerful roar
in an empty house.
Love was in the moment
and I had no time to transcribe
drunken cliches, familiar rose petals
evaporating from my tongue.
Every direct sincerity that doesn’t make
for good art, but lies reliably crumpled
by the bed, like the dingy sweatpants
I long to change into every night.
You made me believe, they make
my butt look great
and that the mustard stains
were simply mustard stains.