Dear Machiavelli-Mouth
BY FRITZ WARD
of the sky. Clouds the color
of your mother’s necklace—
let’s call it ferocious sensuality—
the one we lost between Amarillo
and August.
Over and over. Silently. The clasp
breaking. The way an & never would.
So what
if we grieve for what chokes
us. Let’s coax
another year, one more frontier,
one more fuck
this drowning— Or
we could stop right here, between the sky
and the road-dead deer.
Here: I’ll be the desert.
You be the plains.
Let’s lie down with all that nothing
between us.
 nbsp; The wind will wear our promises down
to bone beads
small enough to string—
or swallow.