My leg rots away with the words from my mouth—its
green apple spit dribbles down the blushed poinsettia leaf
of my skin. This bed is infested with the filth of afternoons
drenched in the silt of sleep. Exhaustion drips. Skin swells.
My fat ankle the fat lip of a marriage to love driven into
the ditch. I would eat these pages like cotton hung to my
gums, savor fleeting dreams with the flesh beneath my skin.
Gauze, wrapped tight between the sheets—fleas crawl on
skin; infected by the bite of failure on the lips. My dry
spell ends in an abscessed mind. Chew chalk pills with soggy
teeth and swallow hard the loss that rots with pages
empty in hand.
written 11 August 2011.