by Amy Soricelli
If I screamed down some tunnel - hollow air;
like marbles, like pearls -
the slippery spiteful tongue would get caught like lettuce in the spaces in between -
I would not love you still.
The air would squeeze my heart into dust.
If I stepped on some glass - slivers sharp edges like broken promises
sawed off wheels in the snow - the thorny rims would pierce my toes -
they'd slip aside one another/teasing tiny drops of blood into place like grammar.
I hold the pain to my heart like cotton.
I would not want you still.
The sound of fear would choke me like a restless snake.
I have hated the sounds a bad marriage makes on trains -
on line buying milk.
How the still air gets crowded with black cloud wings - how the
rain bolts down a thousand hungry chains - their spoiled disappointment
groans like poverty - then settles like fleas on a dog you cross the street from.
I shut my hand against you like a black jellybean -
the screen door buzzes a thousand lonely bees..
We live like this now, you and I.
A rough terrain of rocky spots; land that catches in our
throats like a dare.
We are a map.
You are Here - it says.
This is you.