MY LOVER’S WIFE
My lover’s wife is unlike me.
She goes like a fine green trick
of the light, her hair disarranged
with begonias and ballpoint pens.
I bought her book. It isn’t as pretty
as she is—at least that is what all
men say. Anyway, I haven’t read it.
I just carry it around to get it dirty.
I had a dream I sphinxed
my lover’s wife—I mean that
I riddled her and whipped her
with my tail. It was erotic as
a coffin turning over. I did not have
enough gin for her bath. Her skin
burnt carbon, in the dream, that tonic
smell of forms in triplicate. I woke up
coughing like an engine stalling out. If I
became my lover’s wife, I would not be
as pretty as my lover’s wife. I think, if I
could kill her—I could never kill her,
though I should, for she has taken fire
from August, has unmade a thing
I loved—if I could kill her, splash
the bottle-green of her with pitch, I think
the light would go to someplace
else, would not be left to me.