I am, as always,
eventually your ribbon house,
your soggy sugar cone, the wrist you break
with a swollen heart on a walk with another person.
I am all the time consumable. Clarified
butter in a bowl of milk. Free
like the haircut, sunset, blowjob, that makes you feel
a bit better about yourself.
Girls making out with hitmen slowly gentrify
the city. Women making out with handbags
start to billboard glassy homes.
Maybe you don't notice this. Nowhere
dear do you make demands. Downtown,
at nighttime, a boy spinning fire
fills the trees with ghosts
her hat on her head; the crumbling lion
loses an ear. The rain wet coupon
you thought had expired swirls its way
down the playground steps.
There are places where the precipice
of reason is the reason. Hold on
to my wreckage or, please, let me go.
Eileen G'Sell teaches writing and film at Washington University in St. Louis. You can find recent work in Parthenon West Review, Conduit, and Ninth Letter (forthcoming).