The grass is growing white
from the dirt. The crab apple
trees are black. Our front door is red
& Boy says I know this seems
like a bad piece of art, I know
this seems like a movie
if only because it's visually stunning.
The mailbox is rounded
against Boy's palm & he's opening
& closing & opening & closing
with the other hand. The red flag is
broken off at its stem. I'm trimming
the rose bushes. I turn to Boy & my hands
are bloody & my lips are bloody.
When his mouth opens I slip him
the thorns, each one carving
its tiny journey across our tongues.
Boy dies & masked men in black coats take away his skin & his organs. They give me his bones in a box & I string them up as windchimes, hang some on the front porch & some on the back. Every morning I check for the newspaper that doesn't arrive & Boy's bones clatter a beautiful hello. I can't sleep so I step out back to hear the crickets. His bones are silent & I flick one just to watch it knock into the others.
Boy says he's looking for a place to hide our clothes
again, another spot to make a hole. He lifts his shirt &
points to a thousand daisies waiting to be plucked. I say
I'm tired of everything always turning into something else.
I'm tired of the way he keeps making himself impossible to
ignore. Boy says You only come here because it's easy
& before I can say that isn't true, the flowers start
disappearing. Boy is just his skin again, deathly
white & scarred around his ribs. His hair & fingernails are
longer than they should be. I say This is another dream,
isn't it? & Boy says If only we were sleeping.
These pieces are from a manuscript that is part love story, part horror film. I think a lot about the cinematic nature of dreams, how they can be incredibly unsettling & vivid, yet simultaneously skewed & obscured. In these poems the speaker's dreams reveal how he thinks about his relationship with Boy: that their love is horror & their horror is love.