Poem 920

I’m sorry I can’t feel your tongue and I can’t take your pain away.

I’m sorry you have to deal with the bees past midnight and the

Stars wake you up. When the grass grows I will mow your garden

With a knife and spoon. The blood dripping from my chin

Is not mine, just like the man in my bed. I want to eat the scabs

Your mother picked and I want to dance with the moon.

Wearing nothing but my mind on this muddled morning,

Brighter than the North Star, her eyes shine.