by Precious JonesI despise how you become me
how I'd rather write than bathe,
rather write than wrong your
thighs thick as thieves/rather
pilfer and pluck your garden
clean/poem your lips and
scribe your tongue and fingers,
rather be a possum of possibility
yearning yours eyes and idio-
syncrasies/I despise how you
become my valor, my virago
Our love is World War III
the anti-Christ, the
bright-line between never
and forever.
It is Armageddon.
The last days.
The only days
