Say that I   
exposed to the world the place where my vagina leads, 
in the garden tiny flowers bloom and 
no one that spring would forgive me 

Such an oath may never have existed but its trace sure does 
you are sewn in closed and 
I used last month’s paycheck to buy you some decorations 

When I die my mysterious death and they do the autopsy 
will there be any remorse or pity, I wonder, 
and will my skull be pure white?  
when the severing’s done, and the hacksaw is placed on its silver stand 
will that sound be warm and moist? 
And the not-quite cinematic 
birdseye view of the room devoid of meaning
suggesting bullshit 

The vibration —it was me 

Whenever I touch the saddest of places, 
what feels best is that kind of masturbation you just smile through 
Do that some multiple of ten-thousand times and 
after the hundreds of midnights or middays spent
taking meticulous care to avoid touching each other during sex
in this nothing-left-of-a-body, I 
slurp ultra-spicy ramen with you, almost choking,  
we stand side-by-side 
We know nothing, but
We exchange looks that say   We Know It All 
or  We Know at Least a Little Bit 
My endlessly stretching tongue is so pale, 
look how pale it is — 

I didn’t have it, so I wanted it.
I never learned how to make appropriate faces.
I could have made appropriate faces.
I had it, so I didn’t want it.
Equally. 
A torrent of impeccable greetings. 

I cannot love just one certain someone. 
People so cute they ooze guilt 
when they secretly face the hole and scream —
The Earth spins. There’s only one.

Nothing to regret and do over. 
It may be improper, but go ahead and laugh. 
Afterward, it rained, 
and everyone clucked their judgy tongues.