“Well now that we have seen each other,” said the boy,
“if you believe in me,
I’ll believe in you.
Is that a bargain?”
My ear is a rose that you bought from a man outside
and gave to me. It was romantic because I could hear
the scraping of the thorns against my left brain as we
inserted it, twisted it around until the reception was
right. And now my hand is a shovel. Stop speaking,
stop speaking, stop speaking.
Tonight I feel the pressure because my ear is
blooming. You turn me sideways to stifle the sound. I
am sticky with flour. And after the nausea subsides,
we eat pie and it is delicious.
The boy is a disease now. Something I don’t have. I
don’t bother to go to the doctor, the same way I don’t
bother to expect his phonecall. And that’s okay
because that means that I am healthy. Mine is the girl
who gets even. I know the antidote. And the space
between my front door and the sidewalk is littered
with worms – little withered penises and index
fingers. So everytime one points at me I know exactly
what to do.