I wake up feeling the tightness behind my eyes
which means I had the dream where you were on fire.
I couldn’t do anything to stop it (tied hands, bodies,
all the bodies filled with salt)
so I couldn’t even cut myself open and stuff you inside
where my warm mucous cave could choke out
the flames of your paperhands, laced with ink
(the delicious taste of ink) and the green dress you wore
with your hairy legs poking from beneath, turning trans-
-lucent at the calves. Mr. Cactus Legs, take me dancing
And all morning—as I make rye toast and try to fold the egg
white over the yolk (the pocket of heat, the surprise, the gush
I catch myself dancing in the kitchen,
just a two-step here
and a two-step there,
my mouth aswill with grape juice,
and you—your vanished knees.
This is my blood, don’t cry now, just drink it.
Just turn there in the green dress, and let me spit juice
all over you until you are nothing but ash.
But I don’t know what to do with the translucence.