Playing Monster

there's a line in a poem that goes

"Leave me, let me
Let you."

but not everyone's so gentle. line
to line, interred grace. it's not about
a letting-go: there's so much
more dignity to a balloon than

a blonde song crackling
through a kitchen radio. something
a housewife would hum
for weeks, until her spotty son
got sick of it and told her
"this is not real music"
and besides, she got the words

let me let you
-comb the days, unknotting
until bald,
-press a pillow through
my face,
-see beyond you, (take a pick: spider-cave,
working mens' lair, marshmallow forest.)
-push a nail under these
sickening scales,
-sharpen my teeth with smoke

having lingered too long.
the afternoon was sickly.
cordial-sweet, airborne pity.
it's still light out, switching
the light on;
no blood on my claws.

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