To the lover she is hoping to land include
her lust for the woman’s hips, the scent of her Chanel,
the desire to twist and turn her chestnut hair.
Her heart is a dollhouse, floors filled with furnishings.
You think about lying down, all that plastic.
The letter is a forward in your inbox. For three days
you can’t get past the line that starts,
Something I want to tell you…
So you text your own love interest.
You say I love, I love like a partial list of artifacts.
Who knows how it might play out: she unravels
into a pile of thread, tears open your vocabulary
from an archive of snow?
At the fairgrounds, the hopeful lover-to-be turns
your wife down while standing in line at the Ferris wheel.
Later, around a campfire, your wife cries over and over.
Everyone is covered in ash. She wails that you can’t
have your lover unless you tell me everything.
You can’t unknow words like “corset,” “dildo”, “fuck.”As your wife sleeps, you text them in rhythm to her breath.