I survived loving you. After calling your name
in ecstasy, you would find me writing poetry
as if our love-making had never occurred—
mood on mood replaced by word on word.
Your name woke me that morning and I fled
to the only place in the world—your bed.
Hope, excitement, guilt, dread.
A smile. I brought them all. So we might be fed.
Now I am alone, writing, with naked feet
stretched comfortably out. You were sweet
To let me get away from you.
In my poetry, what will I meet?
Will it be your teeth. Or your feet.
Will it be you, dancing with death,
holding me down, eating my breath?
I yell out your name.
Something about a name is always the same.
But poetry is different.
Word on word killing mood on mood—yours,
a mood that terrified me
once—so I escaped into poetry.
Yet something about this whole thing is wrong.
Oh the dreams I dreamed of you and song.
There is no escaping you, is there?
Something about a name is always the same.