we should rob banks together.
we should be cowboys, lean as leather,

mean as hogs—we should own a farm together,
make a game of gutting pigs. i don’t want

to be a bad person but sometimes i just am.
we all are. we should hunt xenomorphs together,

soft butch Ripleys rippling.
we should be porn stars, lick

& stick & sob for $9.99 a subscription.
we should be cheerleaders, toned & blonde

& dripping in virginal sex appeal. we should
be virgins. the fly on my ankle

presents a form of intimacy.
i’m touching your lip with my lip.

once a doctor halved my tonsil like an orange
wedge & sucked pus out. we should be

doctors, inject each other with glitter
& egg yolks, just to see what would happen.

if you ask me what i’m most thankful for,
i’d probably say something funny, like tape measures

or castrated statues. you know, for the bit.
i can say whatever i want, as long as i say

“just joking” afterward. we should become serial killers.
just joking. we should unhinge our mouths

as if they were doors to step through, & step through
them. we should heave the cat like a bowling ball

through the air & see how many birds she knocks over. just joking.
when you first think of a hammer

as a tool of destruction, you’ve already lost.
this little theatre of gender bulges past its belt—

we should become playwrights, stage our own melodrama,
replete with engorged clitorises (clitori?) & white cotton

& foul-smelling herbs & guns that shoot milk & we’ll have
nom de plumes so no one traces it back to the source,

our bed, where i pretend you are as here
as i am. pornography precedes the death of art.

i’m hungry as a gun. we should be guns.
we should hang something in the doorway.

we should scale a giraffe’s neck & steal from it little kisses.
we should do so many things if we say we are in love.