I don’t wear my mother’s body.
There’s no use sneaking around
the house, a gingerbread prefab,
forest-scented with frosting snow.
Punch drunk on fairy tales.
Non-ascetics: you & me—
There are two kinds of romantics.
Hungry poets traveling in packs.
Youths high on starry endorphins.
Both strung out, marauding baskets
& snacks. Preying on predators
that never see it coming, quick blurs
of spindle-spun lingerie & perfume
in verse. We go on being voracious.
Hand-fed fantasia, baby doll
& vermouth. There are two kinds
of people: virgins & wolves.
Hearts full of apple choose
poison or the truth. Ah, the bitch
of one bite. The clock might strike.
I leave a trail of crumbs on the way
out. Never the way in.