the phases of the moon
the seven perfect words
cheerleaders in the trees
or the woman from the suburbs
who gave herself to science
who unbuttoned her blouse
for the purpose of research
I don’t want to watch
your goddamn movie trailer
in which the gold-haired tax attorney
weds the famous chef
only to realize then
that she has always been in love
with the silent boy who kissed her
standing on the floating bridge
or have you turn to me and say
we’re two fish, you and I,
darting, drifting, spinning,
in the river’s haste and tug
don’t want to hear about
the Phoenician alphabet
I don’t want to lick my wounds
when it’s yours I want to lick
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