BY PHILIP MATTHEWS
She wants me to weep.
She wants to marry me
if I am patient, wild enough.
Folded into my calm like a pattern
I would wear. What ran brightness
rubbed down to rock
I keep buried just inside
my breastbone. I know
that for a moment, our fingertips pressed, my middle finger
pressed, I sent a message
I had thrown up a scrim, a boundary
that would protect us
and for a time, I could stay flaccid,
wildernesses came over me.
I had reason to fear
as heaven hatched:
This was the beginning of Petal,
Sometimes she is a self-formed being,
Sometimes she is a friend or a mother
in an apple-print dress,
holding my hand, leading us, hermit-like,
through the forest.
Until upon a house we spot, we
weeding and bramble
upon and crack the whole thing
in and crush it. Ivy in the trundle-bed,
locusts in the seams.
Moping over dishes, inhabitants
and cream. Inhabitants
bathing with a teacup of water,
one each. As off across a sticky
cloud, attempts three times to break in, one
eye kept on the doorknob.
Petal has changed since the green
stone was plowed up with the harvest,
obsequious, slightly opaque weight except
in moonlight, direct
beam to its ghostly liver. All day she sweats,
her face flushed, her hands loose from storage
angle to my breasts, my throats, and I
like it. Don’t I own her throat, too?
I rinse her cock with
abundant energy. Long times I
watch her from the punch spirit forward,
re-tin the barnside, cut the copper.
To tell her / if they are nearby. She is as if
electrocuted with ghosts, beating at the stone
at her throat, shower of glass.