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.