Slices of sky just past dawn, foxglove flowers and wild
tangy grapes, bulbous, far flung, then closer
incestuous uncles traipse through my mind.
That’s what I notice. Purple things. They're what I live for.
Is this an affinity? A parallelism? I stagger
to breathe, anxiously scratch at wrists. Am I
to be captured? Bidden to be one of those
prisoners suspended from reality, encased
in a full body cage: silent screams, cries for clarity.
An unrequited passion matches the intensity
I had felt for Barney as a kid. How I had wanted
to marry that globular dinosaur who loved me
from afar. And this is what I manage to remember,
one drunken moment or two hours ago
during our latest euphonious ‘domestic quarrel.’
The police came this time
separated his dingy thumbs
from my sweaty neck to reveal
his juicy plum impressions.
How his traces dazzle now,
black pearls worn opalescent
refracted by denials and stacks
of unsigned restraining orders.