he was the summer crashed and crushed
into a boy who did not exist yet; and i remember a novel
i was going to write — about a girl with salted long
hair, riding her bike
along seaside cliffs and a boy with black — hair
who worked in a bakery
and wanted to kill himself.
now when i think of the boy, he is my new
novel: the villain, the victim, the archetype
of female desire with bloody hands and pomegranates
stuck like rocks in his teeth. if i was persephone,
i would not have run from the god
of death — i would have eaten sperm out of his hand
and pretended he was my father.
if i write him oneday it will be sitting alone
in some foreign country with loneliness curled happily
in my cunt in my stained fingers
and he will the be son, the lover, the father
the boy crawling like a snake along my leg and saying
what a fucking fool, who would want you
and who has — ? and who will — ?
i will have to close my eyes
to finish the
poem: he is right but i cannot stand
to have truth spit in my
mouth, i would rather slowly wheel the bike
(i cannot ride) to the mouth of the limestone
cliffs and watch the sea foam
curl up like tangled hair; the boy in the bakery
is waiting sullenly for me, as if i
and only i have to come to save him.
the last pavilion 