If you can kill two birds with one stone let’s have a rock concert
and hang the winged creatures that hover
over our dirty laundry
out to dry. So you slept
with her once and now you have thrown that shuttlecock
into our game. I could smack it all down with my racket.
The birdie would stick up stiff and yellow
from the green lawn. Rigor mortis.
Hey, I have never believed
in Eden—unless you count the rainforest. Even there, bullet ants
could sting you to certain death, or snakes the circumference
of trees could choke the air from your lungs.
Cassowaries with heads as bright as rainbows can open
your flesh sharp and clean as a hand-held
hole punch with one swipe of claw.
Once in grade school our teacher gave us black construction paper to create
a sky, the holes papered white behind
to indicate intricate galaxies.
Really, if all we are is rocks ground down, why waste our time
being angry when we can wash out our spots and stains.
The shirt still works if you wear it close with a vest.
My love, let’s only symphony about the big things: if we’re bleeding,
or punctured, or dying,
or lost.
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