Northern_Lights_2017

16 Mixing in the thieves And Manhattan hot hooked sleeves. Oh love, Don’t pay me no mind. I think I’m lost I think I’m speaking in pitches and fever dreams again. II. I sing a mourning song for every hair Lost in the shower. You joke— Say they’re jumping ship. Next time I’m in there I think: It’s not love If it isn’t a little rough sometimes. III. I hear jumanji knocking in the tub. I rip out more hair trying to find the source. My chest bums around. Sinks. Can’t be that. IV. Later that night I find the knocking box Beneath my pillow. Count back from mildewing years Caught in the corners, Cauterize the blades of hair, Sleep sick with tongue sweat. Murdered whispers. When I wake You say That isn’t the right box. And that I should quit. Stop swallowing sparrows. I let you roll over into your Levi’s and out the trapdoor. VI. I tuck the dead birds in dozens at a time. Recount to them and anyone listening my latest love lesson: The correct response to being put in a box Is not “please stop” Or “Can’t you see I am greater than this thing? Than these lines and holes digging out?” No, The correct response Is a giant And brilliant Fuck you.