I’m coming out with my hands up. Here’s the psilocybin
and the gorilla glue. A sprig of mint, grown by the boy
who snuck the picture of you wearing nothing but his
teeth-marks. Somebody had stolen the highway. Named it
after a company. Somebody was counting their change
outside the midnight supermarket. [It was past 3:00 in the
morning.] Someone was getting high, but couldn’t come
down, watching the traffic lights change. Hoping their mind
wouldn’t mind, but I ghosted the bed. Thought: Lucky
I don’t pay for love. Lucky to have a hospital in walking
distance. I’m cleaning out the body, and it gets dangerous.
There’s a part of me that wants to holler in the middle of
the service. When the sinkeepers assemble in brutal rows
before the dismembered pulpit. Freeze frame. Tall grass.
Disciples. Or starlings, whatever you call the swooping
night-strike—Wish I never told him, but baby, if this is a
graveyard, I’m willing to dig it. You’re feeding me doves
and Lucky Charms. Lightning’s melting over my head. 
I’m coming into a fast car, over the valley—my hands up—
You’re driving like you’ll kill us. Power wash the dry wall. 
They say this happens only once. They call it a blunt trauma. 
And when the love runs out, I don’t even have to ask.