die hard

he came as a shock
under the setting of the sun,
a backwards green mario cap
and all the old jokes, the same smile
the usual flash-fire raised along my spine
in flawless remembrance.

the sex came as a surprise
and even though i bear impressions of his teeth
reliefs artists might shiver for
while dentists clamored with fists of fifties,
even though miniature knives pierced my labia
when i pissed not thirty minutes ago
(he is always so rough, he tears me i am sure)
i am still not sure i wasn’t dreaming.

before my shower, my skin carried his scent;
i did not want to be clean, but compulsions are demanding
and so i scalded his sex, his teeth
and his memory from my flesh with guilty pleasure.

he is home again and his lungs are caving in
as here in my living room i blow, frantic,
on the embers of his memory
and write a poem to hasten the flame.


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