Wooing
Doesn't so much matter what I thought when I was a teenager
and we pretend that we were married,

doesn't so much matter about the wooing,
the wooing, girl, is wakeful, a harsh sweat

where your bones slip from your flesh like
some sort of primordial wound,

girl, the kiss is white hot, his body rigid, alert,
eyebrows raised,

the wooing is wounded,
an animal skittering toward the busy road,

the wooing is winter when the woods
are deeper, darker, lush like frostbitten lips,

lips that twist it fists, hot tongues, I will catch
your breath between my teeth and hold it there,

that is how I will kill him, girl, that is how
I will reawaken, like some mangled gypsy,

some wanderer, wishing upon the ancient
empty headed stars streaming yonder across

the oval landscape where the sky rolls like
dice from day into night; love is chance

girl, taken, stolen, bad luck on a rainy
evening when you're already too tired to argue,

girl, he will woo you
despite yourself,

you will remember him coursing through your
veins long after.