Chorus: You are a room missing a door.
Soloist: To be alone
starts with a little
bloodletting. Lancet or leech,
there’s so many ways
to get that cleaner, leaner,
meanest solitude.
Chorus: A husband is not a Band-Aid.
Soloist: Adhesion is flesh-colored
punctured with uniform pores
pheromone blowholes
portholes letting light
into the wound area where
the blood smell of sex & metal
blotted out by sterile press
of winter bandage square
flanked & secured
by nude flaps, brief
sticky embrace of proxy arms
that peel or fall or rip off
all your downy hair.
Chorus: Keep on bleeding.
Soloist: An empty shell
has no ache,
no tinge glowing
from deep cherry center,
no lava to hold its red
long after the spill.
Chorus: Pour into her.
Stains are ghosts, only darker.
