Remind me
If I believe him, he was a stranger
pulling the spiked strands of my hair around his wrist
like rope. Like the end of a long decision
about the limits of the self—and what privilege
to consider the construction of the self. Between blinks
his eyes were all white, like snake
bellies. At least now I don’t dream of women
he hurt before me. Veins in a creek
laying my body over her body. At Stanford, he wrote,
I want to lick the back of your knees,
while I read poetry in a room of hissing light.
One of the most important moments of my life
ended with three rifles locked in the loft above his bed.
He would say he didn’t know himself
when he asked me to marry him. Had a bowl
of harmonicas and coins from other countries.
Every night, he scoped bodies on a 40-inch screen
while I touched myself. White-neon-red
explosions branched across the ceiling.
I got so good at coming. I came through.
The only thing easier than loving someone else
is hiding yourself in someone’s love for you.
