SPELL FOR COMING AND GOING
Send me something I’ll need to delete,
a tale half-told and twice remembered
when I do feel regret, six-weeks after.
The delay must be rooted in the phases
of the moon, or my menstrual cycle
when I smell of grapefruit, sweet acerbic,
and am fertile. I only want what’s wrong
to covet. My mouth salivates as the room
closes in, desire making me need to vomit.
Sext: I like when your ellipses appear
and then disappear with no explanation.
Greek for hiding behind silence, a falling short.
Wait, that’s what I hate, like provoking
men until they call me bitch like I like.
All I know of you is your digital trace:
the three dots that appear when you are
thinking of what you don’t want to say.
I can summon a conversation if I ask you
just the right questions about yourself.
Not: am I the last to make you come;
but—when’s the last time you came?
CHARM TO WORK REVENGE
It was the timing of rejection couched
in moral stasis: you came and kicked
me out of your bedsheets to clean up.
Was it that you believe in God, a friend
telling you to not give up, and I search
for that same feeling in you, flawed?
You gave me up for lent, Holy Ghosted
me, deleted like the amateur erotica you
shipped of us—but I still have the receipts.
In about five years, my husband tells me,
life will shift from forward reaching,
and scenes of the past will become
immutable, take up a greater space.
When I said Dear God I Want You,
I meant your cock—not your face.