A Worksheet for Girls

Drain away sweetness, just slide
the blade of shattered polkagris
beneath your gums and, when you grow,
you'll thank hard boiled lessons for the complex
mouth of Campari and espresso;

For the poisoned notes of a carousel,
and a faltering reach, a slip
of fingertips that whisper against -
but never catch -
the unravelling sleeve of la belle dame Regret.

(This and more you'll come to know.)

Hair

It’s not true, what they say about the smell of babies, or if it is, it’s a universal illusion perpetuated by a shampoo commercial.

In the dark, I kiss your small, hard, delicate head. I cup it in the palm of my hand and press my lips firmly against your temple, linger longer than is necessary, as though I could sink this message down into the roiling quicksand of your subconscious.

... love ...

I lob these words into your slumber, the sounds reverberating incomprehensibly: I love you, whispered furiously, like force could crack the shell and release their slippery innards, leak them into your dreams.

Your hair does not smell like baked bread, or clean sunshine or talcum powder – it smells of nothing. I inhale the absence of smell, breathing the warmth back into your hair. It contains a slight, melting whiff of the dinner we cooked earlier which, if anything, accentuates the perfect, nothing smell of you.

Love: I’m unlearning the words to every meaning I know.