In the kitchen

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)

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

                                                                        tonight

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

                                                            of sunshine)—

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.

Later, as I sweep up the broken plates, mop up

the egg yolk, I don’t know what to do with what’s left

of you, the translucence.