I Hoped to Never See You Last


this is an old poem, written a few months ago.

Even in deepest sleep
Your eyelashes are
The bristles on the backs of flies,
To sense the slightest touch
And whisk you away.

I want them, to excise them slowly
With tweezers so rusted,
They creep shut
And dust your lids with orange.
To pull them out-
Like teeth from rotting flesh-
Dead roots from muddy earth,
The slurps and squelches
Satisfactory.

I would build a structure
Of wishes out of them,
A scaffolding stuck together
With the salt I found
Hydrated on your cheeks.

When I have cried you dry
And the wind follows flies
And sends your lashes off one by one,
I will count them as they go.
Counting on one (middle) finger
Where I hope you’ll end.

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