At Least a Dozen Bluets

I—the telltale animal—rest my throat

against the snare of you, offer my howl

to the black-eyed Susan in free will,

one fistful of yellow stubbing the chin

of never-never land. We try our best to

out the devil, to trace his foul-mouthed

lips that outline why we desire what we

loathe. It was your personhood that made

me lose hope—that prison system of a

language. I keep a pay phone in my living

room for you. It rings when I touch myself,

the nostalgic purpose of ill will. I am a marked

woman now. Nape backlit with you in shades

of blue, suffering the robe pity slips off at dusk.

I will always give you credit for such undressing.

No—a form of never—clings like stringy meat to

peach pit. I have yet to love a man who has not

strangled me to death, has not tried to muzzle

want upon waking. If startled, I shout out

the names of gods or unborn babes, a once

upon a time of denials. I count black sheep

and wait for the sound of your touch.

These numbers are a nervous system.