pomegranatelust

If I hadn’t deleted your number, or if I had paid attention to street names as you drove me to your place. I would say, "Forget you." Forget bouquets of chrysalises, halfway formed, on display behind glass. Forget rainbow sorbet roses bruised against the relentless June sky. Forget the swelter between our bodies, your lips on mine. Kissing the labyrinth of your ear. Your discarded shirt. Forget, "I want you bent over the couch." Forget the game of Scrabble, unplayed. No need now to limit myself to seven tiles. I arrange the letters on the board to spell FORGET, WANTING, YOU.

Never Give Love a Name i. the Chachapoyas did not call themselves the Chachapoyas this name an invention by the Incas          the history of the Chachapoyas recorded in ruins          fragments of bowls          tombs tucked in mountain cliffs ii. breath caught          in the throat erodes the lungs          scratches against the empty caves left by the ribs          the broken bowl of a shoulder blade twisted bridge of the neck that can no longer be crossed ridges of the spine a chipped necklace memories of a kiss embalmed          tucked in the folds of an ear now there is only this only this          the body