The Spill

Showcased like a whored up turn of phrase flips
for your viewing pleasure
and is unrecognizable-
we used to be diagonal-house neighbors.
She is a good hostess: lets anyone in,
wears religions well.
Two pokes makes
a beautiful solid creature suddenly hollow
like a cream-filled-egg aftermath.
Also like eggshell art-processes and also like walking
on eggshells,
caved in after blown out joy
and one surprised mouth
and one leaky pulmonary artery.

Up the stairs at her place, stills from Egyptian cinema;
women with black hair on black and white film,
soft rounded bodies like marshmallows in girl-shapes
but there- my heroine is coy and sits in vulnerable locations
huddled where the picture meets the frame-
awkward introductions.
She is serious and uneventful: not a good hostess,
hungry and breathing over an open heart
body bleeding through sloppy cuts.
I see a network of small roads and wires of primary colors,
but she saw you, through capillaries, and in vain-
it was your body that had been cracked open on the table
and your heart remained closed,
and most of it had spilled out, by then.

*as an interesting sidenote, this has recently been translated into French, which should be fun to see, and completely ridiculous to read