BIRDS ARE FALLING FROM THE SKY LIKE STONES
There’s one goldfinch left in our kitchen
shaking the cage with its wings.
But the leading character knocks it out
with a dart.
I’m only on page fifty of the book
and I’ve already killed everybody.
I stride through the reading as
a butcher slicing through meat,
shoving the bodies aside with the metallic tip
of my boots, pinning my stick
on navels and open mouths.
How is it possible
to live normally, to feel good
and yet use a knife and not a pen,
to think of you,
imagine you inside,
taste you with my finger,
as if tasting a watermelon at the market?
I’m frightened of becoming a maniac.
Lose my mind. Of going into you
one day and coming out the other way
with your heart stuck in the blade of a blender.
I’m ashamed of...
I walk back, in the rain,
ignoring the hookers, greeting strangers.
I arrive shriveled from the cold,
with a dirty face and wet feet.
You give me warm soup
and I fall asleep on the kitchen stool,
leaning against the oven,
while you iron my shirt
for the next day.