Of Sausage and Unborn Children

We moved recently. That meant, among other things, coming to terms with how vile I am, based on the ruthless dog hair and urban dust netherworld I apparently allowed to flourish under the bed for three years. It also unearthed a long-since forgotten tin box, with bits of writings dating as far back as 2005 written on scraps of paper of all sizes. Some of it is really bad. Like, burn it bad. Some bits I love for their imperfections and clumsiness.

This was one of them.

Untitled, 2010

I've been up and down the sheets
Made and unmade those beds of roses
and worn the thorns as buttons
while sticking thin fishbone pins into voodoo lovers

I've tied every love letter ever with twine
And set them on fire in a secret place
it took three days to reach on foot

One time I held two stagehands hostage until
they turned the spotlights on me
So I could perform the rain dance to call
wet love down from the skies

But now I want one bed
One bed and two pillows
One bed and two pillows for two bodies
A place to cook you dinner
and a Cajun who can teach me to season sausage
properly

I want to hear my children
laugh from inside your daydreams