The Victorian on Edge

When I scream     the carnations rise

above the tors        and when I slam

doors     the cooling   jellies tremble

on my pantry shelves   and when I fuck

the man I fuck   the house sinks another

foot into the mud   There’s no bedrock

to these feelings    that whip around

like spirits stuck in bodies    they despise,

bodies that never give   them what they want:

a house that          explodes to splinters.