"the trees have their loves through they're different from mine"

a pretending like that would work
like taking the gremlin doubts that lurk
in my mind and snorting them down into my mouth
chewing them up and squishing them out
through the gaps in my teeth like tender
titian yams, all dull pumpkin spice.

a pretending like that would serve
like the way i dished up the curve
of my shrunken breasts in a boned corset
deluded, that, these were the roundest your tongue had met
truly though its a presentation hiding my womanhood
a sagging secret like a bar of soap in a stocking

a pretending like that would pervert
like sloshing around in mud and dirt
uncapping a jar, trying to capture the breath
of crimson tuberroses, light powdery and bereft
of weight. i hate that the thorny can smell this
waltz on the wind too, so i pull out the roots.

a pretending like that would incinerate
the feathered masquerade mask i would bait
a fire with, that big venetian spectacle you wanted
to wear on the town, so daunted
by showing us perfumed ladies your cherub face.
i would take it away to take away what would hide you.

a pretending like that would water down
a piece of your peace of mind, contrast like the sound
of uncapping your maker's mark, wanting to make a mark
on the tension of boyhood and tasting that dark
amber, which is just diluted now, because i like
your hands how they are. sober, crystal, unshaking.

or it could be (please please be) that pretending
she never sewed the frayed woolen lining
of your cold country solitude, that she
never came before me, it could be
as harmless as furtively clipping your nails.
maybe you couldn't play that guitar anymore but

you look so secured for me when you play bach.