you have a man now. the times have changed
mine has gone back to the alleyways,
slinking with malintent.
we tied red threads (with intention!)
a Chinese finger trap
a steel backbone against the revisions of time.
men come, and they go, our red knotted net
fills up with them and we
take our pick.
you are (always) my red woman. no matter the men that
or go, no matter
the great states of our nation pulling this love
into a puzzle of borders
and highway lines.
bleeding fly amanita and white cap
where the lines meet
growth and death are the same here – life cycles
churning like butter
softening under the heat of distance, hope stuck
like a bug
in the golden mulch.
we decay and spawn more of ourselves
into our map
as we go, the cracks
in my screen kaleidoscoping your face
into lichen and mold,
your stained glass
on the cathedral floor.
you grow from everything. the apple
sulking in the tree
(keep my secrets: these
bruises hidden by smart angles and contours
of gold) the forbidden fruit
was always loving something
gone rotten, gone bad, gone wrong.
i am not the firm flesh.
i am slime mold on the map
tenderly creeping, closer
and closer to you.