Once you said I was cold
enough to freeze the cock
off of Satan. I’ve imagined
my body the way you saw it
in that moment— marble
tough. Exhaling a mean
winter wind. The devil
is a man broken
down to a hunk of ice. Thick
and dead in my hand. I like
to think I was happiest
in a real house. Argentina
lasted long enough for chickens
eggs milk the goat—a little stove.
Here you’ll call me
liar. I did like
the running when we were
running. My small heart
a pot crying to boil over.
And for a while I liked what came
after the running. That wet
loosening of bodies. But
didn’t I love Cholila?
Wasn’t I happy that time?
You were the one who wanted
surprise. The surprise of your skin
in my sleep. I woke my dress yanked
to my belly. You already
half inside wanting
the breath half out of me
and still the shock of your weight
in my dreams. Do you remember
winning the puppy at
the St. Louis World’s Fair?
Of course we couldn’t
take him on the boat
—the thing started to shit
and cry on day two—
but I remember your face
moving towards me. Darling
half throttled quiet
behind your back. Your
massive hands
like red dirt.
Something about
the way you loved
me. My pretty talent
for silently taking
in your
gifts.
*This poem was a semi-finalist in the SWWIM For-the-Fun-of-It Contest.
