The Morning After Pill

The morning after our earthquake
I examined the canyon between my legs:
Your swelling, ebbing and withdrawal.

The morning after our completion
All my jigsaw pieces grew new edges
Yearning to be part of a whole that would never exist.

The morning after our journey
I set sail in a paper boat folded from your letters
Watching myself drown in the ink of your fickle words.

The morning after you left
I could not swallow the pill:
Your promise of life left me itching; wanting;

Craving your withholding as much as I hated your giving.



I am afraid what my blood test will reveal.

Genetic foibles; mutated infractions of my ancestors
We spent so many generations hiding these secrets
Our artery walls have become rigid from compressing scarlet.

If you spill this scarlet, run tests through it
You will not only find the corrosion of your void
But a gestalt of all the loves we had to forget.

Do all my red blood cells resemble empty bowls
To transport life through plexus and peripheries
Or is your absence writing itself in my veins?

For some nights you possess my platelets
So I cannot help but Bleed to your vacuum
Like a switchless fountain, never ceasing.

All my organs have bled for you. Your memories
Pool and congeal as tumours over my anatomy
In my kidneys, brain, stomach, arteries

I fear if you move too close to my heart
You may arrest the only muscle I reserved for myself
So pierce my skin like a first heartbreak. Test me.