Love Story

At 10:30 AM she hit him
and her hand broke off.
He glued it back together.
She hit him again, harder,
broke his nose. Her hand

fell off, slapped the floor
like a burned flapjack.
Before he blacked out
he wrapped her hand back together
with baling wire, then wrenched

his nose into shape, cleaned up
the blood. Gave her a rose.
It was a guy-thing to do.
His face resembled an eclipse.
She held the rose to her nose,

convinced she still smelled sweet.
She whispered lies into his ears
and the sun darkened
the scars on his face.
She hit him and he mended her hand

with epoxy and a staple gun.
More blood. It tasted like
copper pennies he swirled
in his mouth as a boy, believed
he could shine them under his tongue.

Strangers inside her waited
like the moon to darken
her demons, block out the sun
and what her sister had done
those years before.

In Touch

Stay in touch my friend says so I touch
my arms my legs my face when my friend
is away or vaguely present at a party.
He’s more interested in the black strap

that slides down the host’s arm. She’s pickled
pink telling her story. My friend listens
because she’s the party host and the slice
of her cleavage is clean as a knife into chocolate cake.

These are the middle ages, the right age
to stay in touch with my soul. I think I know
my soul that moonlights as an architect
for Jesus. My soul needs me to fill out

a health questionnaire. Are we two in touch?
Not much the results show. Allergic
to advice is more like it. Night sweats rinse
my memory. I awake sober, don’t remember

the tasteless joke I told of the sperm
that crossed the road and how sex is
like a game of bridge. It disgraced my wife.
Her voice rattles like an ellipsis. She slaps

my hand when I touch her. Don’t blame her.
I pet the dog who could kick my ass if he wanted
but he’s a guy and we do guy things—breath hard,
lick the dessert plate. We stay in touch.