it is good
   who is good
who can tell what is good

clergy wrapped in tissue robes
   wine and loaf
        spoiled like rotted fish

college counselor
        touching your sweater too long
rubbing until his wedding ring
                       hung in the threads

   I should have broken the car window
     instead of waiting hours
                    in the rain until
the truck arrived and rescued
the keys

we drove to the country and made love
     for the first time— guilt
soft, warm, wet
              at morning every tree had
a penis and breasts

       you would never be a mom
and I can’t help but think
                        that was my fault

Before the rains,
I live in your skeleton,
pressed beneath the crust
of your face.

I breathe the dust
of powdered heartbeats
beneath your chipped breasts,
dry as bone.
The spit from your lips
searing, mineral
burns my throat raw.

I enter you
as a serpent burrows
into desert sand,
tongue splitting heat,
a parched orgasm
rattling through your
box of sticks,
nothing catching,
nothing taking flame.