Digging Holes

There’s hours until the sky turns blue

again

when you call and I spring out of bed

to fly over darkened skylights.

Over girls dressed in white 

lay face down in puddles of saliva,

someone else’s fingers in their braids.

I melt in front of you, wholeheartedly

a puddle of impotence at your feet.

But you wore your combat boots 

and I can’t stop the soles

from mashing my soft body into bullets

that whirl around like a boomerang into my head.

Another stain on your wall.

A month ago I was a sunflower. 

I woke with the sun, mounted the day

and rode it to the ends of the universe.

Now I wake with long shadows, 

swallow shards of glass

and wait for you.

Present your shovel and pull me out 

of this hole made of soft bodies and hard words.

I want a kiss, but

you break my nose instead.

Sticky drops turn the sky crimson

on the picture I’ve taken for you.

Daylight has broken,

but the excavator that you are 

keeps you from seeing the sunrise.

Your dirt-caked face

will never be clean again.