I took a poem as a lover,
but I had to give it up.
Poor form
to claim what’s yours
as mine. In truth, we each have
a fair shot. In truth,
the poem belongs to all
the ladies, stout or tall,
dyed hair or false nails: it cannot
be monogamous. The poem
nests, rests, in every
furred nook it finds, nuzzles
right up close
until you forget what you smell
like. The poem
traffics in desire, wears
lipstick on its collar like a medal, faint
scar of love. I want the poem
to be my own, but you need
a visitation too, you need
to believe the poem is
just for you.

Hurry! I cannot hold your half of the sky
          as well as mine
          much longer.

The engineers have done all they can,
but even they have thrown up their hands
and grumble as they turn away
from this eventual disaster. Soon,

the police will cordon off the area, the whole
world really, because of the sky and me
and how I could not bear the weight.

One time I sprung a leak.
          Now the little girl’s finger fills
          my mouth, bloated and fits like spray foam,
          keeps the water and vermin from springing
          out of my goddamn pie-hole: Save me!

I cannot ask you for the time of day,
let alone to save me, so why can’t you
just come and grab a slice of blue
before God decides he’s had enough of me?

I suspect I won’t accordion under this weight
like Wile E. Coyote, or resurrect like Christ
or the villain in a horror film. No, I’ll be
sliced in half, the magician’s unfortunate apprentice.

You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?

Did Atlas ever complain, you ask?

Like always, I’d show you the wounds in my hands
but I’m too busy with the heavy lifting you left
to me. I’d wipe the tears but they keep me afloat.

          Put your hand between my stantioned legs and you’ll find
          I’m skin-shrivelled and wet with sorrow. So what?

I’m done! Rosie fucking retired, and the men should
do the cleaning. You’re up! The pulleys tighten,
the footlights blaze, the curtains part. You’re on, pal!
Why are you always such a diffuse shadow?
                                                            Slippery son of a bitch.

This tiredness creaks my bones. I have crushed
teeth in my silence. Come down from your heights!
Don’t you see, Zeus? I need the burden of you
released like an exorcism, like a blessing.

No thank you. I prefer
the Emperor. You might be
surprised to know. If the choice
is mine, I’ll always
take a fat man in thin
person pants, a thin woman
in a house dress, a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
an alien in sunglasses
that can’t hide his one eye
but good for him for trying.

I don’t care. Pull the wool
over my eyes. The Emperor’s
finery is all right
by me. If you look
the truth in the eye, it only looks less
like the truth. Just like words
lose meaning the more
you say them, except maybe love but love too
is cocksure with hubris
adorns the adored
in robes of gold and gold
rings on each finger.

But that’s okay. A slight
of hand is all
it takes to make my day.
The Emperor can wait
til tomorrow for the reveal, can revel still
in the filmy opacity of his popularity.
I’m just one
in a million, which makes me
both someone and no one.
Don’t take my word on it:
Such is the way
belief takes hold–
I’d rather be naked
than clothed to the soul.