He smashes in my stained glass skull,
crystal handled near its burning
base, dispassionate, embracing
my melting face like a candle,
he flashes a bulb of a smile,
wishful its bloom will return in
spring, after the flood, flowering
fistfuls of vows for removal.
He says it’s necessary, I’ll
just end up too goddamned handsome
unless he pushes in his pain(t),
since all of his husbands just tell
the judges he’s an unstable
specimen, someone inhuman(e);
that this isn’t love, but Stockholm
Syndrome, keeping us in (t)his hell.
But we do travel; colours fall,
and the black, and blue, and red runs
autumnal, on my knees, on down
past my lips, giving him head, all
the way in as collateral,
damage dressed in panic, ribs pinned
up like silent tragedians,
lost, wandering toward his call.
He wants me, if it’s possible,
to ignore the sirens howling
with copper knocks against the wind,
low voices banging in the walls,
booted hooves moving through, appalled
to get clues of this brawl within;
picking up his pants, he opens
the door, greeting cops with bullets.
Sacramental bull, my head’s full
of shit, here we lie, prostrate in
our perish; hopeful it’s heaven
that sent these Kevlar-clad angels,
I rise, obliterated, pulled
up by my neck; unforgiving
of his lacerations, I hit
home rock-hard what Cain enabled.