Not like this. Not tonight,
a white stone. When you’re 36
and seething like sixteen
next to the telephone,
and you don’t know where.
And worse—with whom?
I don’t care for this fruit. This
Mexican love hidden in the boot.
This knotted braid. Birthcord buried
beneath the knuckle of the heart.
Cat at the window scratching at
the windswept moon
scurrying along, scurrying along.
Trees rattling. Screen
doors banging raspy.
Brain a whorl of swirling
fish. Oh, not like this.
Not this.