Bread and Jam
My Love
is a breeze through your hair,
this hot, humid summer day. Lay you out
under a blanket of stars, hand-in-hand,
connect the dots, tracing an upside-down sauce pan.
“I’m hungry,” we giggle & run to the flickering lights
closer to home.
When they bury the dead, feel me
rummaging through your clothes, kissing the lock
between skin, hair & that special underneath,
where souls dwell, floating contentedly above the sea.
My god, I do love you,
but my work here is unfinished.
A broken rock, the cliffs of Dover, all the assorted
flotsam of ancient worship wait for this unscheduled bastard
to stand & fall before the legions,
so they will not die this way.
No actor, no love, none of this domesticated serenity
men in suits sold us for a song. I feed
bread & jam to the hungry, dress the “trailer trash” in my mother’s barmaid hand-me-downs, bandage the walking wounded
with my clumsy, shaky hands, as the radio plays a billowy love song
lost in the pages of their scripted porn.
I am a super-hero,
dressed in villainous rags,
who once loved for a time.
