The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
Subscribe and Save up to 55%
Outside the wind roars without ceasing
like a restless ocean bruising the shore.
Windows shake with fear in their panes.
The clock’s heartbeat quickens
and the chair nervously shifts its weight
from one leg to the other.
On the stove, beans soaking in a pot
stir in their sleep, sighing my name.
At the first crack of thunder
the ceiling threatens to shatter, like the shell
of a hard boiled egg struck with a spoon.
The telephone almost screams.
Then softly the rains begin.
I dream of lush tropical forests
and wake up pulling out strands of my hair
like long dark weeds from the newly moist earth.
Even if it was only the tip of his ear
and she was just a gin-soaked whore with old thighs,
the point is at that moment
to him she was more beautiful and more rare
than a thousand perfectly cut diamonds
or a field of royal blue irises
or you in your red parrot dress.
And if I ever love anybody even half that much
I’ll gladly cut off my whole head for them
if they ask, and even if they don’t.