Q: Did they write poetry about you because they loved you

or did they write poetry about you because they loved poetry?

 

A:

 

***

 

Q: Are you still here because you’re waiting for the moonlight

to butter the buildings and beaches

so you can swallow all that seawater in private?

 

Or are you still here because you’re waiting for the sunlight

to buzz more bees into existence

so you can tip and drip the combs into the mouths of the loves who stick around?

 

Or–be honest, honey–are you still here because, mouth full of salt,

you need to lick the legs off a glass of wine, and

invent yet another new name for yourself?

 

A:

 

***

 

 

Invent a form of lust that’s not extractive:

Invent their lovely shining teeth again:

               Now make ones that won’t break skin:

Invent a lack of their smile between your thighs:

Invent the absence of their hands:

Invent a language without the word honey:

Invent a mouth that never tasted it:

Invent a world in which you are never called any secret things:

Invent forgetting:

Invent therapy:

Invent apologies:

              Now make forgiveness:

Invent a you that’s smaller softer quieter not too much:

              Now make one who’s prettier while getting fucked:

Invent a you who’s never hungry:

Invent a new posture:

Invent a way to stop your body from always

               wrapping itself around what won’t come back.

 

Show your work.

 

***

 

Q: What was your name, anyway, before it was Please?

 

A: