Ask Me What I Call It

Mitchell Angelo

I used to be gross

but now everybody loves

me. The television believes

we have crimson skin and batted

wings. I make my dream wife

promise to sleep with the radio

on. In dreams she sees my teeth

attached at her hip like a carabiner -

our dream book asks us what

we’re so scared of. She melts

like sugar-cubes at sunset. I don’t tell her

and she doesn’t ask. The spacing

there is intentional.

The blouse in my wardrobe is for riots - red will look nice

against that pale yellow. My wife says I’m just tired.

When you protest at my funeral, at least wear nice shoes.

Four leeches grow fat on the last traces

of my womanhood and soon I will be nothing

but a man - I’m tempted to swallow but hold my jaw tight.

There is so much left to be scared of.