About my mind, its wires glitching
like a jellyfish sprite
flashing its apple-red tentacles
above my numerous thunderclouds.
About your eyes, not a savior’s eyes
however brown as blood. I used to be improper
in regards to the God I warped
right into a weapon, a garrison.
Wrong about love, too. I assumed love
was my mom’s soprano tessitura
screaming. I assumed love was
a violence. Verdi’s requiem, Dies Irae.
You thought love
was love. New-millennium emo. February
flooding the college beneath the palms
wringing their palms
like willows the morning after
you rinsed gas-station zin from my hair.
I’m sorry I chased you for years
the way in which a cowbird tails the cow—
not for love of the beast
however for the bugs it kicks up.
She ditches her eggs
in another person’s nests
to do that. Kills another person’s younger
to do that. This possessed. I used to be.