(Procrustes Explains Why Loneliness)

Should have room for any guest, if not chairs for us each— Until my good cheer pleases, shame is my pocket full of spiders. When I am too big or lonely for visitors, I wish to be known for my dauntless hospitality, deft reach across the table, careful excision of limbs. The pull of these little deaths is not talk about love but the brace of love as object. Is why I cut her body to fit my bed, fish out heads rotting like soft peaches in my pantry, teach snakes and gnarly hounds to crown me mother, cull my cruelty into sugar and baptize my tea. Some dish she is, sitting feckless and gargantuan. What a waste, what the heck, I feel vulnerable, too, like a speck on the floor where a dog slept, where the brick tastes like a turn on a dance floor, recalling her moist neck.