We'll feed each other anguish with a spoon, bullets and daggers sinking into the roof of our mouth,
determined to sap at the stem until the bitterness subsides or until we fall asleep, whichever comes first.
It's usually the latter.
There's not too much that Nepenthe can't mask.
We'll wake up and wipe the grime from the window, or is it from our eyes?
It has been so long that it's hard to tell.
Arsenic melts like sugar in our mouths.
If I could, I'd plant hyacinths over this grave, this arid dirt that has been plowed over and over. I'd buy enough to build a sea, blue like the great Pacific. When everything's blue, there will be no difference between the land and water.
No vast deserts to cross, to sky to separate.
We'll dig holes and bury our bones until our hands are raw, only to have them dug up again and reburied again,
iron shovels burning rusty blisters into our hands.