AND THEN SHE OWNS YOU❤

This is not morning. There is a nastiness

slowing your shoes, something you shouldn’t step in.

It’s shattered beads, stomped flowers, vomit—

such stupid beauty,

beauty you can stick a manicured finger

into and through, beauty that doesn’t rely

on any sentence the sun chants, it’s whiskey

swelter blown scarlet.

Call this something else. Last night it had a name,

a name wedged between an organ’s teeth, a name

pumping a virgin unawares, a curse word.

Wail it, regardless,

Weak light, bleakly triumphant, will unveil scabs,

snippets of filth music, cars on collapsed veins.

The whole of gray doubt slithers on solemn skin.

Call her New Orleans.

Each day she wavers, not knowing how long she

can stomach the introduction of needles,

the brash, boozed warbling of bums with neon crowns,

necklaces raining.

She tries on her voice, which sounds like cigarettes,

pubic sweat, brown spittle lining a sax bell

the broken heel on a drag queen’s scarlet slings.

Your kind of singing.

Weirdly in love, you rhumba her edges, drink

fuming concoctions, lick your lukewarm breakfast

directly from her crust. Go on, admit it.

You are addicted

to her brick hips, the thick swerve she elicits,

the way she kisses you, her lies wide open.

She prefers alleys, crevices, basement floors.

Hell, let her woo you.

This kind of romance dims the worth of soldiers,

bends and breaks the back, sips manna from muscle,

tells you Leave your life. Pack your little suitcase,

flee what is rigid

and duly prescribed. Let her touch that raw space

between cock and calm, the place that scripts such jazz.

Let her pen letters addressed to your asking.

You s-s-stutter.

New Orleans’s, p-please. Don’t. Blue is the color

stunning your tongue. At least the city pretends

to remember to be listening.

She grins with glint tooth,

wiping your mind blind of the wife, the children,

the numb ritual of job and garden plot.

Gently, she leads you out into the darkness

and makes you drink rain.

BY ,

MADHANKUMAR.R