TAXONOMY OF THE EX-LOVER

After Oliver Bendorf's "Split It Open Just to Count the Pieces"

Call me Colorado. Call me sunset. Lafayette,
Erie, sinister: O left hand, O hand raised
& lowered. Call me bottle on the ground

& I'll call it a gift. Call me avoidance,
removal of organs. Permanent bruise
just below the shoulder. Yours but

everybody else's too. Call me anything
as long as you're calling. Call me star
of your haunting, headliner, golden

child, youngest & most favored. Grey
heat. Wilting orchid. Call me not so bad,
call me accident, broken umbrella, mirror

with handprint. Call me the history
of a nation. Computer malfunction. Trick-
or-treat. Call me unmitigated. Eternal. First

of all firsts. Thief. Red earth. Call me God
or something with a pamphlet: O follower,
O true believer, O girls, girls, girls—call me

deserving. The future, but not necessarily
yours. Call me wall between two doors. Invisible
whistler. Muscle without flesh. Call me flinch,

twitch, electric shock. Space,
space. Everything in it.

__

ADDRESSING THE CONSPIRACY IN WHICH DISNEY HAS KILLED LINDSAY LOHAN'S TWIN SISTER FROM THE PARENT TRAP, OR, OH LINDSAY LOHAN WE LOVE YOU GIVE UP

There is no sister & there never was. Still,
to think of you un-twinned is an affront,

despite the truth of the matter: One Lindsay,
one freckled body growing in itself, a voice

content to vacillate, precarious,
between national allegiances. Can't we

will a part of you to diverge, accept
responsibility for indiscretion,

to have gone to rehab in your stead
& retroactively acquire DUIs

& Golden Razzies? To love & lose another
woman, a language, to grow a heavier

tongue, to tell us how bad you feel, how
sorry, for the men who would gladly eat

you? Don't we deserve this act of mitosis,
a Lindsay free of sin & inconsistency

to house our memories? It's you we want,
Lindsay, your red hair, unpierced ears,

speaking in Western tongues only, you,
holding a hand up to the mirror,

watching it move in time, watching
when it doesn't move at all.

__

ULTRAVIOLET (INTERVIEW WITH TONYA HARDING)

What makes a girl?

Visible light.

What makes the distance between two girls?

Telescopic
baton. Under-

rotation.
Decay of compulsory
figures.

What
makes America static
                                         electric?

Pointing at televisions. A too-
bright girl. Electromagnetic
feet. A bruise
                           radiating up the leg.

Why are you crying?

I'm not.

Why?

Nobody ever believes me.

Why?

I have this dream where Nancy
is there and I wrap my arms
around her biceps so she can't
move and she forgives me
for everything but her skin
starts burning through my shirt,
she glows like have you ever looked
at the sun too long,
                                             like that,

Why?

Signal lost.

How do you sleep at night?

I have this dream about two
          girls, in-
candescent, one is on
      the ground, screaming, sobbing
into everybody's mouth, the other
          is me, I am bending
my knees, holding my breath, the air
        crackles, and when I jump
I keep spinning and spinning
                                        and I keep
                                                                           spinning—

__

[on LINDSAY LOHAN]

[on TONYA HARDING]