On Dating a Therapist, and: The Angel and Her Surrogate

On Dating a Therapist

I dream of you in the pumpkin chariot.

Orange thighs swellfrom the twisted gray neck of the stemto the puckered gray dent of the asshole.

This is the sweet world of your Cinderella,but you are racing to get home.You miss the dirty house. All its secrets.

Bluebirds sing panicked human words.The stepsisters watch us in the bedroom,

piggy eyes haunting from the closets,and you talk to them over my writhing crotchuntil their self-esteem improves.

Oh, my almost father. Almost doctor to so many.You pat each mousy back and turn animals

to men, but until midnight they are wildrats dragging unsepulchered girlish legs.

Lover, I type this poem in front of you.You type your own work, case studies, something.You don't see me watching you,

and I am a total pumpkin, the sun's eyeball,so hard, and little, and angry.

I got my gold scooped out.Guess you're richer, guess I'm poorer,

I'll get the story right.

The Angel and Her Surrogate

Inside the wombof some mortal slut,my son opens his eyes.

Her stomach,a cracked wooden barrel.New home, my son, this shed,water and beige.

A pile of intestines at your back.Her heart mumbling blood.The simian hands of her soulstroking love into your skin.

Look at her. Swinging her lungs,the breasts she keeps inside,full of dirty air.

How can you stand it?From a glass bowlshining with heaven's frostto this.

This constant exultation,I'm alive I'm alive.

I grew you in silence.Pressed my belly against marble wallsto prepare you for the ice tips of my wings.

I tore apart a white roseand placed one petal over one feelingover and over again.

I built a still room for my son,so still.

But He told meto put you down into the earth."No one can know what we have done."

So I buried you in the soilof a woman,she is all fertile sleep.