Night Sky with Exit Wounds

The face
not mine—but one I will wear
to kiss all my lovers good-night:
the way I seal my father’s lips
with my own & begin
the faithful work of drowning.

How a horse will run until it breaks

into weather—into wind. How like

the wind, they will see him. They will see him

clearest

when the city burns.

No, a man

bending over his son

the way the hunted,

for centuries, must bend

over its own reflection

to drink.

Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once.

Maybe we pray on our knees because god

only listens when we’re this close

to the devil.

Don’t you know? A mother’s love

neglects pride

the way fire

neglects the cries

of what it burns.

Everyone’s shouting or singing and he can’t tell whether the song is for him—or the burning rooms he mistook for childhood.

He laughs but his eyes betray him. He laughs despite knowing he has ruined every beautiful thing just to prove beauty cannot change him.

I open my eyes. His face
between my hands, wet as a cut. If we make it to shore, he says, I will name our son after this water. I will learn to love a monster.

He moves like any

other fracture, revealing the briefest doors. The dress

petaling off him like the skin

of an apple. As if their swords

aren’t sharpening

inside him. This horse with its human

face. This belly full of blades

& brutes. As if dancing could stop the heart

of his murderer from beating

between his ribs.