Love, I’m a musky vermouth, palm of discount
stars, instruction manual for low-end vibrators
which is to say, my frequencies have slowed
down to the flutter of a junebug’s libido,
slow but steady, now that I’m with child
and cast my desires across the earth
like a plastic lure. I think the earth is obscene
sometimes, its jeweled ligaments and glands
bedazzled with poisons, designed to seduce
us into curated oblivions. I’ve been sober
five years and still don’t know what to do
with all this beauty, my serotonin receivers
cracked and humming. Even the news
playing on a deli’s small TV set is a pleasure
I will one day miss, how the blonde host’s
lips are opulent as bloodworms at low tide
shimmying under a full moon, and the footage
of protesters looks like believers frothing
to be sedated with holy touch, even the one
who carries a sign that says “If we killed fetuses
with guns, would the liberals care then?”
But I still can’t help thinking that someone
made this sign with their own hand,
that it’s possible to love an idea until
you forget what love means, and doesn’t
this light show of vitriol remind me
that I, too, am dissolving back into the earth,
that we are just pre-ejaculate glittering
on god’s ornate tip that will keep spurting
long after we’re gone? Let me love
even this anchor asking, don’t all lives
matter. Let this love be enough
to keep me going, trudging through
a spectacle that shimmers like shit
flecked with gold, a rancid honey
whose sweetness obliterates as it shines.