for you, Władziu Valentino
You left me a nugget of Scandinavian glass
zipped into leather; I bound to my office door;
someone stole therefrom. The end, right?
I write you a coil of necks, pricking at the edge,
and I picture myself (the awful shame of it!)
on my knees, slurping ink (sour, unapologetic!).
You write me back (I’m necks, you’re backs):
the glass was a euphemism for crystal meth,
and have I considered my position adequately?
I left you off a roster I had written—on purpose,
but without purposiveness—which was partly
for safety, partly to make you very angry indeed!
You leaf through me, before my disenchantment
from intel into shrinking softness;
there’s a panic at the cyclone; I blame you.
I’m right to note that the two best pronouns,
“we” and “you,” disguise (respectively) the role
of addressee and the quantity of it/them.
Your right to a glass cylinder inside blue puff—
undisputed by me or the insurance company—
nonetheless tethers bull to factory: awkward.
Oil: each palmister’s method differs from others
in more matters than style; still, lez be real,
there’s a right and a wrong way to do it.
I’m mother, your pearl; brothers smothered,
and curl it in through the side-gob, hirsute.
You’re mother, pearl-mine: nut her fluff up,
and gouge it out of the throat, Liberace-style.