

			Rebecca Loudon




			Your body the heat of a great city glorious electric chair humhumhum raw lips belly-swoop glory hand too much too much air between us like an ovenproof dish a lamp in the foyer your mouth's flame I will stop speaking for 4 days I will drink green tea I will push antioxidant berries up my ass I will drive slowly a cleansing ritual with curtains & blood I'll continue 5 or 6 or 7 years from now married or dead or rocking inside the granary narcotics are good take them by halves until you run out Counting figs and wasps I followed your dither through the maximum amount of Christs and a small helplessness I wanted to see how things looked after the dustup I love you Puddinghead I love you Fallen Fruit Bat I love you Biscuit Mouth my day-glo dress yielded a razor and a couple on a sidewalk near a pub in Chicago circa 1947 held hands she hummed he frantically searched his pockets there were holes in the wall of his belly she was clueless I insisted beyond names until that day you woke the rats the elk in the clearing startled up their flanky desire What makes your skin supple makes you want to rub I wanted to find you that night instead I found implanted corn staring through a girl’s window chocolate & pencils a drainage tube & ins. naturally ins. lots of it & electrodes surprised at how you’d aged your brow worry-rumpled as a reclined Sharpei I have not aged at all what with the head injury and 3 Coca~Colas per day etc. I slammed my hand in the car door just to be sure 6 pills eine kleine traction pink chew toys on the floor


			Rebecca Loudon lives and writes in Seattle. Her most recent book is Cadaver Dogs from No Tell Books.		pastsimple