love is not a dove, you idiot.
it’s the mangled pigeon
in the alley behind the all-night boozer,
still beating its one good wing
against the puddle of oil and regret.
it’s the tooth you find
in the morning sink,
not sure if it’s yours or hers,
the copper taste of a sacrament
you swallow with the warm beer.
that’s love.
It’s not violins.
it’s the tinnitus shriek
after the pistol shot of her leaving,
the permanent ring in the silence
that is her name.
it’s the knockout punch
you see coming from a mile away,
and you don’t even roll with it.
you take it square on the jaw,
grinning through the split lip,
because, just for one second,
flying backward toward the floor,
you are free of the goddamn gravity
of yourself.
It’s the trench you dig together,
not to hide from the war,
but to be the only two
in the whole goddamn war.
The mud is your sacrament.
The shrapnel, your wedding rings.
When the last dog in your chest
quits howling,
her silence is the collar
that chokes the quiet back into a snarl.
Love is the exit wound.
The clean hole where you bled out
something weak.
And standing there,
empty and finally true,
you feel her wind
whistle through you.
A perfect, terrible music.
The only tune you ever learned
by heart.
