By Maggie Boles
Your calcite shoulders are so slight
I admit I’d prefer features so feminine
to exist six inches above breasts.
Cassiterite snoring like a drunk; expelling
breaths of bud lite and pall malls
to remind me of how poorly my head fits
into your bony frame; even with your lack of meat
you are too heavy to move.
Azurite pooling and alarmingly viscous
oozing slowly up the stoop– the damp pavement.
You are bearably tall
but without consequence and embarrassed
to be affected by some Bukowski-quoting-rich-kid-coke-head.
Think on some violet field,
whirling panoramic and inadvertently
call you the wrong name; you still
will not stir.
Cold agate and all obsidian
in my blue bed you are so pale
you’re almost clear.
I wouldn’t want you even if you had maintained
some warmth or flame
though i love you as a mother
loves her least favorite child
(your bike is at the foot of the stairs
again– I’ll undoubtedly trip in the morning).
My vow of celibacy
applies exclusively to you– you
tragic and brooding
addicted, prodigal son
memory like expired polaroid film.
As your mystery ebbs, so my desire follows
and soon enough you are nothing
more than the mockingbird outside my window
singing the tune of a car alarm to a street lamp.