like Trotsky in Mexico

i conjugate apples  to apples
replacing you with
syntactic dribble, spilling onto
my shirt, buttoned
collar to crotch

i am marrying words
like you married your
dolls in the seventh grade
the little weddings, bride
a tacky white christmas tree,
white as pearl, crashing into
a cake, breast-like goblets
as the groom snickered
softly to himself
and slipped the ring
down his throat like
a hook on a fishing line.
she was left, a Great Red Spot
on her Jupiter panties,
a glazed wreck
on the tongue of red velvet.

i break myself on the wheel,
stretched like taffy over a
slow grid, my feet raped
by icy stirrups.
you both watched gleefully
as Joan of Arc burned as paper,
blowing into dust.

he said he wanted your smell
he said he wanted your taste
he wanted to wake up,
his breath all in yours,
his socks, bunched in a
corner of the room
he wanted your children,
and he wanted your life.

but i guess i am just
Trotsky in Meixco,
an icepick in my head.
from afar,
i caught a glimpse of
a disaster
hanging like a lightbulb in
the back room,
and yet I pushed my tongue
forth like a plow
as you held me steadily,
softly,
even cradled,
legs outstretched
on a blanket
making snow angels.

and now, this very bed
we shared is a chamber of secrets
which I harbor, a crate of scorpions,
and when I sleep,
I become your liver,
your kidney,
your pancreas,
your bile.

i could helplessly
collapse in your lawn,
waiting for your window to
open, but instead,
I just grow into the moss,
the grass
swallowing me
whole (just as you did).