and above the dryer on the back porch she let hang three pieces of purple glass—sometime broken—taped together and hung from a string, let little cat swat a tiny paw—claws untrimmed (not even once)—at that makeshift guillotine (for no one) as if there were a question with only an answer in breaking, with only worth in the guts to swat and ask of glass—little cat, isn’t it right? thinking: you’ve been left out for hours while I occupy the one who’d let you in, hold her little ribcage above me (isn’t it like the frame of a house, isn’t it like holding a home in my hands and knowing I could have, if not crush, some little home, that little frame and her skin, and her breasts so recently salted with tears and unsalted.) Isn’t it? It isn’t how she jerks along my pelvis
like breaking panes of glass free from my sex. She says something like “fuck me” in Spanish. She says something like “my darling,” and it’s like pulling mirrors from my crotch and pressing our noses to them—inspecting with nearsighted favors—as if they were the other’s face—little cat swatting and “what is it? what is it?”—lit up like the sun through purple glass and magnified along my pieces, waiting to be picked and hung like bouquets to be pawed at. I think this isn’t a question about my limbs and the brain that begs them to hold her and that love, her sex, and to pull something from her, though there is nothing but the little home—deep beneath the contrast of her skin at mine and grating—that holds it all without me, holds that short breath that satisfies me so and everything that pulses about her.
Index of First Lines