dummy

Wind chimes, praise god,

I’m re-learning to shoot outside

the warehouse full of dynamite.

In my vest, in my pocket, blood

from the still-open wound. I’m re-learning

to shoot from the hip, from the gut,

from the upper-class penthouse apartment

of my lady friend. She lets me

use her window while she makes ‘Significant

Art.’ We reclaim the night, and she only asks

that I don’t miss. But what I really like

is the way my body is healing, how

the scars are pouring their own sand,

smoothing the welts. Pretty soon, I’ll be able

to step back into the daytime, out of the

staircase into a dirty street. I’ll raise my gun

left-handed. I’ll be your mirror image.

Tamarinds to remind you

of Oscar night: those wet rocks,

slick pods. It was a good performance.

I jumped up on the ledge screaming

I want to eat you! When in fact

I only wanted to hear you say it: Yes,

Yes. I wanted to be inside you,

upside-down–and later, when I was

I tasted your legs. I said they were

the most delicious feelings. I couldn’t

control them–nobody could.

I saw that those legs would take you

through a desert one day, to the edge

of a continent. I saw that the mermaids

would sing. And that you might listen

to that song: This land is bitter. This land

is sour. But that’s what we love about it.