Geneva

From my bed I imagine the strange quiet of the graveyard. I fidget at the thought of spilled blood; my cheeks burn, my foul teeth bite the slippery harpoon of dementia and I moan in the dark like a flattened crayfish.

    A tuft of your hair lurches on my tomb. My chest is chapped by a thousand wavelets, restless; I think I hear the screams of our parents, those tapeworms without opacity even in pain—who crisscross the alleys with sullen mossy walls, they scream and lament, spreading my spasmic delight all the way to the back of the garden. Beautiful garden with pinecone silences, with marble and octopus dreams, with cockroach spells and soft womanly smells. I will crush my cigar in your eye poached by late nights, I will crush your penis with my tired heel, I will crush you completely in the stench of my refusal.

    Your voice breaks the divide. You’re complaining. My vagina tightens. To be touched, and then to wait ...