“LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD ISN’T LITTLE ANYMORE”
Forget the woodcutter. I’m dressed in red because I came
for the wolf. Mama knows I’ve always had a taste for
anything but sweet. Come to me, my lovely, with your
axe glint teeth. Come to me with your gunpowder coat;
your bristle and sleek. Take me hard between these
trees and make me howl; make me shriek. I’m dressed
in red because I came for the wolf, so forget the basket
of sugary treats. Forget the flowers and make me your
meat. Heat me. Eat me. Mama doesn’t have to know
“IN THE HOUSE OF UNHOLY DREAMS”
You wake up to the wet red silk
hot as blood between your legs
and full of a stranger’s body.
The ceiling is a garden of gold
and pink flowers budding, blooming,
shedding their petals, and rebudding
as he works tides through your belly;
when he is done, you roll away
and walk the ghost-soft carpet
to the kitchen, open the fridge.
Inside is the raw pink heart of
everyone who ever betrayed you,
strapped to styrofoam trays
with cellophane and stamped
with expiration dates. You sniff
the chocolate milk—still good—and
consider roasting a heart, but
instead choose an apple to slice.
The white pieces burst brightly
in your mouth, the skin bites a
decadent sour. When you turn
from the counter, the kitchen
is gone. You are the only
audience member in a deserted
velvet cinema, circa 1928.
The projector stutteringly clicks
alive and presents you the bodies
of beautiful people aging
and cracking in elapsed time.
Your ex-lover does the voiceover:
“I am sorry. I am so sorry. You were
beautiful, even with red hair
shaved close to your skull. You were
beautiful, even with my ego
trapped inside your eyes.
You were beautiful. I am so sorry.”
The curtain closes at the sound
of your applause and you wander,
sated, back to the bedroom where
the stranger is waiting for you.
He takes your pelvis in his
slender hands and fucks you
the way you like it without
a word spoken; fucks and
re-fucks the garden back
into the ceiling. You don’t offer
to rock or moan or suckle,
only lay there lazily until you are
finished and you fall asleep.
“WASP NEST LOVE AFFAIR”
You spit a wasp into my mouth.
I swallow it and call it a
kiss.
the hollows of my bones
are seething honeycombs,
buzzing my frame unstable.
There are so many stingers
lodged in my throat, I cannot
speak. Can only
poison and
lullabies for