Sometimes I Look at Her and See a Closed Casket Funeral

I drive for hours over slick yellow paint on old asphalt
hoping the girl I was meant to meet tonight
will not be waiting for me.
My tires roll over the underworld and the voice
crackling on the radio is less headline and more rehearsal
or muscle memory.
Cue stick to billiard balls.
Words to trigger.
Bullet spat to skull swallowing.
Feeling the concrete floor cold on my cheek,
the sweat I’d just kissed from my lover’s throat
cooling on my tongue.
My life made object,
hung in parentheses beside
a body blown open.
The drive is making me sick but then
my headlights drip through the slats
of her shutters and there she is,
barefoot in her driveway, desire pockmarking
her face. I am out of the car afraid of myself.
The car door is loud. My stupid shoes against
the pavement are loud.
Her voice glances off my cheeks and pillows
over my nose and mouth
and damn her for letting the moon blossom in
her hand and dangling it in the sky where she knew
I would see it.
“You sweet flytrap. You bloodstained Aphrodite.
They are waiting to fell the portcullis and trample
down the tabernacle and all I want to do is
suck down your moonlight. What am I to do
with that? How am I to live with these angels
fluttering up my throat and taking flight?”