pillowtalk

i love a man who makes
me a bed from his own
warm bones who lets me
lay up in his junkyard
arms with the breath
of a dying dog licking
at my neck until the day
has met its death in the
dumpster out back

when i leave my bed
of ruin barren to sleeptalk
to the tune of his halfrusted
organs settling like a
stormworn st. claude
shotgun my sleep is
garnished with visions
of the bluedress dead
girl hung from the doornail
the bloodstained hogfaced
butcher pumping his
accordion like a rifle
the corpulent green
corpse hollowed out
and used to serve
popcorn the most lifelike
babydolls with heads
that come unscrewed
and spray crimson when
they meet pavement

i love a man who reads
me back my dreams
in the daylight who
asks about the color of
the door the level of dust
on the frame the fabric
from which the hanging
woman's dress is stitched
the pattern of the blood
spattered on the pigman's
apron the expression on
each of their faces and
never once demands
to know the meaning