Remind me

If I believe him, he was a stranger

                 pulling the spiked strands of my hair around his wrist

like rope. Like the end of a long decision

                 about the limits of the self—and what privilege

to consider the construction of the self. Between blinks

                 his eyes were all white, like snake

bellies. At least now I don’t dream of  women

                 he hurt before me. Veins in a creek

laying my body over her body. At Stanford, he wrote,

                 I want to lick the back of your knees,

while I read poetry in a room of  hissing light.

                 One of the most important moments of my life

ended with three rifles locked in the loft above his bed.

                 He would say he didn’t know himself

when he asked me to marry him. Had a bowl

                 of harmonicas and coins from other countries.

Every night, he scoped bodies on a 40-inch screen

                 while I touched myself. White-neon-red

explosions branched across the ceiling.

                 I got so good at coming. I came through.

The only thing easier than loving someone else

                 is hiding yourself in someone’s love for you.