Atomically Anatomic

God can’t find us here under the covers

The impossible possibilities are still impossible

Melodies sound mathematical mumbling your voice from my mouth

My sweetness, My darling, My lover,

My girl, My good girl, My paramour,

My inamorata, My goddess, My goodness

Oh, my goodness


The heart is the unloaded chambers

The unplayed fields where mines

Are repurposed from car batteries

Where soldiers are repurposed from children

Where children are repurposed into mothers

Mothers repurposed into slaves

Slaves repurposed back

And purpose becomes hazy with the boiling resin

And you become hazy with the passing days

The passing days since I saw your face and loved it

Before I saw your face and said:

‘This is my favorite in the whole world’

Before I too often got carried away by the breeze

Drinking tea or getting up the courage

Writing poetry or pretending and not knowing the difference

The writing is the nervous tick I can’t stop

The disease I’m hoping kills me


Like French croissants to French people

Or American values to American people

Drink ourselves ugly by the start of an empty glass

See the lagging pocket watch from the fearful spires

And tumble into the fiction-science that only turns gears in stories


These spaces between spaces

Between the pauses in conversations I don’t have anymore

Are only tolerable if I can throw pi in the faces of others

And if I can have my cake and we can cut it together too


 Published at Tuck Magazine