Vanishing Pointslisten to this poem
Because the absence of prettiness can lead to invisibility,
she bit a clean circle in the flesh around her wrists,
ringed in red wells, used her teeth for the degloving
veins and sinews tucked neatly under bone
in love with her own blood.
Because the molar necklace sweltered at her throat,
she held his body against a wall and outlined him
with a privet green crayon to stave off the black-luck
flickering on and off like a distant radio tower
his red eye perched between steel beams,
while the slight vibration in the steering column under her hands
Because it was not the first time he’d gone missing
she stretched her arms and grew oddly vast,
left no evidence behind, because at that juncture
there was only amputation. Flesh dissolved,
all the particular tricks to disappearing
down straight to the bottom of things
Thunderbird Motellisten to this poem
The Wife sits in the car rubs
her hands over her alligator purse.
The red on her lips is imaginary
but the teeth in her mouth are real.
Having reached our destination
the sky has turned like meat.
Inside there Ãs a pack of cards but no Bible.
The Wife plays hangman while I shuffle
stretches the shower cap over her face
grins through the shine.
The stain on the carpet grows and assumes
the shape of a jet plane, an urn, an affliction.
The Wife presses her lips to my inner wrist
sings while her hand traces my clavicle.
She carries secrets, snug tight
all the air at the roof of the infection.
Car lights flash over the curtains
outside the landscape turns on a hinge
There is no place to drown here, so instead
we take turns suffocating each other with pillows
going just a little longer each time.
I am already rehearsing my speech to the manager,
already placing the ice cubes in my mouth
hoping they melt before the maid wheels her cart into our room.