I meant to bring you flowers but when I reached
your door, all I had in my hands was teeth. Sorry,
I meant to say grief. Seems like all I say is grief.
Or ghosts. Or please, don’t leave. Lately, I say it
in my mother’s sleep. She used to cry and call out
her brother’s name in her sleep. I’ve written about
this before. Grief, of course, but also, her sleep, but
also, her brother. He doesn’t call me anymore. He
is my blood, and in a book I wrote but I don’t think
he bothered to read. I grind my teeth in my sleep.
A man I used to sleep with told me I talk in my sleep
but blushed and held his tongue when I asked him
to say what I said in my sleep. When a Venus Flytrap
flowers, the two white blossoms sit atop a very tall
stalk. Green teeth way down at the bottom. It’s trying
to avoid triggering its own traps. It’s trying to keep
the bees it needs for pollination away from its own traps.
I’m most dangerous when I’m hungry. I’m most hungry
when I’m hurting. Seems like I’m always hurting. Nothing
but teeth. Nothing but the same words calling out to me
in my sleep. Grief asking its ghosts not to leave. Please.
It’s not up to me when I get to stop crying. Or hurting.
Or holding memories in my mouth, gentle as bees
I promised not to eat, but oh, the hurt is so sweet.
POEM: "Date Night"