- LITTLE BEAST
An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It's thinking of love.
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone.
Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife
carves the likeness of his lover's face into the motel wall. I like him
and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.
Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
I'm sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.
History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
He had green eyes,
green eyes flicked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool--
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire
not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
I wanted to take him home
and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his
like a crash test car.
I wanted to be wanted and he was
very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.
You could drown in those eyes, I said,
so we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.
It wasn't until we were well past the middle of it
that we realized
the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers,
had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.
Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us,
replete with tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes
His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker that before,
scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.
We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass
already laced with frost,
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of
But damn if there isn't anything sexier
What would you like? I'd like my money's worth.
swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood
on the first four knuckles.
but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do
is stand on the curb and say Sorry
I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.