Dear John—
you must know—is not a simple phrase
written on one of two bombs I can’t stop
dropping inside me. That’s all she wrote
is another way to say I would rather live
is another way to say I would rather live
with my burning than sleep with my dead.
Keep putting your hand against my chest,
Keep putting your hand against my chest,
even if I refuse to speak words, you plead,
convinced I could lead any man to dance.
convinced I could lead any man to dance.
I need to tell you the truth—I’d rather
breathe my burning than love my dead—
breathe my burning than love my dead—
but I’m trying hard to pretend I don’t dream
of pirouetting into enemy fire. I might lie
of pirouetting into enemy fire. I might lie
in this bed forever bingeing The Leftovers
& never realize I’m not like the shut-in
& never realize I’m not like the shut-in
who dies alone with no one to check her
animals that will certainly eat her. I am
animals that will certainly eat her. I am
her. I am the daughter who once taught
a neighbor girl how to shove someone
a neighbor girl how to shove someone
to the ground by repeating the move
on her over & again, though I never
on her over & again, though I never
showed her how to keep her footing.
This—dear John—is to say the reason
This—dear John—is to say the reason
you shouldn’t love me now is the reason
you would’ve overlooked me then, when
you would’ve overlooked me then, when
you were already wise enough to know
the world held its knife to your throat
the world held its knife to your throat
& it was everything worth kissing against.
