untitled

AUTHORS NOTE: Not giving your poem a title instantly makes it at least 5% cooler.

I held your desert in my hands
raised it to my lips,
ate,
scoured my tongue with sand
& bitter weeds

I locked your doors
& set your bed on fire
smeared sunshine on your walls
& went out with my friends
while your rabbits burned

I spat your desert from my mouth
through all 37 holes
in my telephone
a hundred thousand grains of static
invading the night
network of wrong numbers
and interrupted sleep

(I followed the directions as long as I could,
until I lost control of the language
& went out on my own
then I learned the real lesson
in simplified form: push
as hard as you want
because something always has to break)

you called me Sunday morning
your suspicions confirmed
"A thousand degrees in the shade,"
you cried, before
tears obscured your voice completely

"Yeah," I snarled
"but it's a dry heat."