for Flora

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After the tyrants conspire, after they bludgeon they siphon they flame flame kill they piss they belch they wealth shit scream they snarl they callous they yell they yell they refuse to utter an ouch—after the ocean fractures like glass, and the sky purples with welts, and all of us die—what’s left? Friend, I don’t know. Am I supposed to say love? You are heartbroken. My love, I must admit: I, too, am baffled by love. What is love? Baby don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. No more…—that 90s song. SNL skit, Jim Carrey jering his neck. Who knows. I woke up so tender today. Needing to cry, I didn’t. You’ve cried all day. I want to dance and sing for you, to hug you, but you are 4,000 miles away. You want to love but lately you’ve tripped, fallen down two mountains. Oh, what is love? Well, sometimes I run—toward strangers, anyone, anything that’ll make me feel good. You’ve seen me rim tajin from my cocktail glass, flutter my hair, musk the air with my pits. Dantaayyy, they’ll say. And you’re a poet!? By then I’m tuna tartare for these men and not-men whose lips cradle my raw, the cure of my pink—whose lips curl and unfurl, parentheses ( ) all yonic all cave all hasty cocoon encasing my tang. It’s a grammar I’ve learned to live with—my wantwantwant. My love, what I’m really saying is: I’m lost, too. Like you I get nauseous, feeling my heart—its acrobat army, trapezing chambers and valves—how many die, nosedive, never granted a net. Ouch, ouch. That video: You and her, fondlefondle, tits titting, mouths gaping like koi. She slid an egg yolk from her mouth to yours; shared sun never broke. But every sun breaks. The video remains, though she has now fled. Ouch, ouch. Earlier today I tried writing about the condition of your heart. The hurt. But instead I wrote Your hurt hearts—a mistake I want you to hear. How the hurt is a thing, the heart is a verb. What is love, Baby—your hurt hearts, then hearts over again.  

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