This boy I thought I loved–
I’ll call him the
patron saint of my unraveling.
A two dollar votive of
La Virgen left to dust the bedside table,
but you should know
he made the wax out of
my hips and two tongues.
And my boy spoke three or four
romance languages, you know,
and one of them used to be me.
He said he felt fluent in the dark
He spoke me into form and
pulled out any mismatched bones.
He took my ribs
and the tiny skeleton in my feet.
I hear they keep you from falling backwards
I don’t know where he hid those bones,
whether he sent them to recycling.
He said those bones would
only get in his way, honestly.
You know, he whispered life in my mouth, once,
I choked, but only a little bit
but only when I said I loved him.
You know, I’m not sure
when he turned my dreams into tangents,
when me made me into angles and right turns.
I used to be comprised of circles, I think.
I could twirl against those radii
without his sneakers and light
to lead the way.
you know, good votives are hard to find these days
And when I danced, you know,
I think I felt beautiful.