Shake your ass around my casket.

Our love rhymes with: cub scout, clod-hopper, trouble-shooter, sore
thumb. Sitting in the kitchen with our fruit cocktail skin.

Who says love can’t last? A little syrupy, yes, a little soft;
a can of exploding snakes, yes, a dissolving eros-aspirin. Yes,

I could be your silent auction-all that old lady furniture
delivered from the house on the hill: velvet drapes, china poodles,

chintz, chamber pots on your doorstep. Now & Forever, like
an interstate. Why not jackpot everything-imagine

those satin pockets in the dead ancestor’s tuxedos. Imagine
the cool slide of your hand entering-imagine yourself dressing

before gilt mirrors, the wool seams unthreading, the smell of wet
sheep, and your hands moistening like pudding cake

on fine bone china-it isn’t proper, but could you please
pass that candelabra? I need to check the laundry in the basement.

Meanwhile, try to imagine a mansion of fabric against your skin.
Already the branches of the family tree have forgotten the itch

of your amputated limb. As a precaution, I’ve welded the keys
to all our doors into matching bullet-proof vests. Did I say

forever? Yes, I guess, so then you’d better
sew all my openings shut with thread pulled from the bed sheets-

you’d better bury me beneath you, our hands
and feet tied. I want to be trapped by the cage of your ribs

as it slowly sinks into mine.