Honey, there is no honey. The sun sucked it
into a cloud. See that cataract
on our horizon, the scratch on the lens
I can't afford to replace?
An arm and a leg. An arm and a leg
and all my long, shining hair
for a new glass eye to see you through.
I could watch you snake fingers
through the sockets of a skull
all morning. Drives me wild
as a stripped stage and you
some new-wave Lancelot
waving your hot bone blade.
Who you gonna stab with that thing?
Is it me? Can it be me? Can it be
you, the one reclining
out of character, watching yourself undress?
I don't know who we're performing for
out here. We're always blowing ourselves
away with our personas. Our tornados trace
spirals in dust. I could do this forever.
The desert is a circle. The sound of opening.
The desert is a gong clanging your name
so what'll it be? One syllable
fast as a flash exposure
of peyote flowers and teeth?
A good fuck on the floor
where the stone is dry and cool?
Time shakes, a rattlesnake
on the doormat. Welcome,
baby, welcome home.
Clare Welsh is a writer, photographer, and illustrator based in New Orleans. Here words and images have appeared in McSweeney’s, Southern Glossary, Offbeat Magazine, and other places in print and online. Her Chapbook Chimeras is available through Finishing Line Press. Currently, she is currently working on a full-length poetry book about wild dogs. To keep up with her work, follow her Instagram @clarewelsh.
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