Brides do not touch me unless dead in their gowns;
the endless bloom of bouquets remaining tight
as innocence, while I, wide open
– a gutted fish, a lost iridescent –
have shown too many bones for ceremony.
I remain a walking silence in this. Dumb
to the violence of promises; a buried skull
laughing regardless. I am not
There is no lace in my lungs;
no filigree of breathing. I am
further from fury than before –
failure clots like a bloody memory
settling in the foreground,
all the distance indistinct
as a shadow.
I long to make peace with my anxieties:
they are cannibals. They are hungrier
than all my reconciliations. I
pick solitude from my life’s arrangement –
the most hospitable of its monsters.
©2012 This work is the property of the author.