Slice

Open that wet box

of ecstasy,

slice it all open like lemon pie

on the 5th afternoon of August.

My mother never told about boys like you,

                                          Slinks so bold they’re nearly men

and the colors on their glass hands glint

like stolen wonder.

On the side of the fence on a hot

18th century afternoon,

                                          tilt my face, sun high

air too thick to see clearly.

I like your straw hat but

my mother

never

told me

about boys like you

                                     wheat stem hanging from your lazy jaw

a sticky sadness

too comfortable to forget.

Slice me open

it’s airless inside, the tangled webs of yesterday

a cold secret I hide under the floorboards of my vacant core

just like a doorway, but different

                                      because it leads nowhere.

I like the fresh scent of pine over a cliff in the morning

before a fresh rain, where I almost forget death

                                      prowls toward me

I almost forget time nicking at my careful woven bark,

carving at my spine

slowly sinking

                                       into a depthless blue.