we picnic on spring grass.
you bring: black eyes,
a clenched lip,
gritted teeth.
you pass the madness,
violence,
a loathing for women.
I share the terror of being known
with shame
smeared in between.
I pass the icicles,
the clumsiness of never being beauty,
complete silence.

you don't love me if my hair is too long
or if you clipped it short.
your tongue, a forked chameleon's.
you are always changing clothes.
you want to pinch me between two thumbs
to make me tinier than I come.
my love is your only burden.
before you leave
your hatred presses down on me.

now too afraid to rustle the blinds,
morassed to my chair, my bed, my hole -
too afraid to rummage charred memories,
I box what is past,
leave it atop a cupboard I can hardly reach.

and I in dizzy half-dance,
step too lightly to waken love.
I cry stone.
my tears cement.
I pass the icicles.

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