Drosophilia midgut

I watch the death throes of the common housefly—

or, should I say, another common housefly—

and feel nothing but a faint revulsion.

I consider the likelihood that this nauseated fascination

constitutes sadism.

Should my mothering instinct be kicking in,

my usually anthropomorphizing cuing me to rescue him?

Pity of some sort moves me,

makes my ankle twitch, a dangerously accurate imitation of euthanasia.

I wonder about the kindness of it being quick,

of ending it—

but then I think of the crunch

and of residue on my flat sole,

and pull back,

and retract the empathy,

and feel nothing but a faint revulsion.

I take out my ruler and measure love,

Love in bruises and hollows.

See the pinpricks: red purple black blue polka dots in celebration;

Tagged like some animal for tracking.

This not-love love,

Some anti-climactic switch

From forbidden to just secret.

I take out my camera and record love,

Zooming to atoms,

Checking places it visited last:

Lips bitten raw so sour burns like acrid metal

Wrists where shadows of the harpsichordist resonate.

I take out yesterday from my back pocket

And stuff it into a journal-

It oozes from between the pages,

contaminating my desk and my fingers,

from where I fear it cannot help but contaminate today.

Autumn Hunger

 The kettle boils.

I step into the open bag,

listening for the distinctive crackle of russet.

Final glances from overripened wheat

touch me till I taste like nutmeg,

and the geraniums in my past

curl into secrets.

Leaves melt into butternuts melt into mouths,

smelling for all the world like your history:

soaked until golden; thoroughly steeped.

I step out;

the kettle boils.

Another Chromosome

 betraying your confidence

and my pleasant memories

composed of Easter print,

my favorite holiday filling up with louder love-because-of-blood,

the piano untouched

except for dusting.

I am unable to ask the questions prompted by my mother’s omissions.

betraying your confidence

to a world who won’t believe in

rehabilitation—

I am one of them,

I am a betrayal.

I am trying to forget for his sake.

I blame someone else, the content;

I am trying to remember for your sake,

to ask nothing

when the glass goes around.

My littlest finger twitches—

though I remember the skin on his hand,

the bright red pinheads swelling—

it twitches,

betraying your confidence.

I am trying to block one ear like you,

straining out her crying out.

I halve him carefully, behind the handkerchiefs that smell like coffee,

praying those Easter prints won’t fade.

I’m sorry—

the cup is full,

the cup is half-empty;

I’m sorry,

the page is drinking

its contents;                             

I’m sorry,

I,

The Betrayal.

A Follow in Motion

I can only see you taking me in sadness.
I hope that is not a sign of
some leftover damage
that I didn’t recognize when I signed up for this.
I keep expecting you to push back.
You don’t; you pull.