Destroying Mayhem

we fly south in a hulking black bird—

the nose dusted grey and the top powdered white;

he drives, so silent, until he smiles at me

and asks if I’m all right,

but he knows there’s nothing to say;

I toss my head and sigh.

we drive along in our big black bird,

ever haunting the highway.


we find a motel and sleep for a while—

we’ll sleep, we’re sleeping, we slept;

he tries to hold my hand.


and the next day it’s the same;

he pretends to understand.

so we stop at flashing lights

and once I ask what’s going on.

he stares at me

and I stare past him and remember:


I was unaware, alone, blissfully numb;

indifferent to the silence

and someone appeared:

an embrace too tight.

he said a name and I pushed away,

unfamiliar with his voice.

“my darling,” he said, “I’ve missed you so,”

but I didn’t know his face.

he looked at me so longingly, so hopeful

and I pulled away.


somehow he’s taken me away—

somewhere south on route 80—

here it’s just we two: burned and hacked and

spliced together.

and he tries to take my hand:

I turn the radio on

and she sings,

“I’m not the angel from your nightmare;

I’m not the one who haunts your dreams…”

and I sing at the top of my lungs.


he stares at me and I look past his eyes,

past his mouth, down his throat,

down to the hollow of his chest.

And there I see his bruised heart,

mourning me.


“what do you want?” he asks,

and I say I don’t know

I don’t know

I don’t know

and things begin to spin

and I scream: there’s no hands on the wheel

as we spiral down to crash upon the sand

and the blood of a big black bird stains the snow.


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