At Galil

For Mike Leigh

I want to do a plural marriage with you
in the baseball diamond. You (semitic) dressed in white, and your sisters
up to bat. In a Mormon sense. In honor of the senses. To honor God and to eat crackerjacks.

Yours is the first vagina I ever saw; in the Everglades, framed by mud, shadow, and towel.
For this terror, I'd like to marry you and your sisters. I can admit to panic; it's the only oil
I know to sprinkle on my pillow. I'll speak with you about fear
but I have trouble calling it sin.

I wrote to you and put pulp in the oven. I prayed to you as I made my soap.
Dressed in white with your sisters dressed in red. A crackup at shabbat dinner
under the veil of forgetfulness. My feelings, stirred by warmth and covered in goo,
are the lamest destroying angel. You told me, in the next world, the perforations of the grid
would be made clear. Now mold grows where the light has stayed folded for too long.
Now my love is denim shorts. Now my love is yoga mat residue on a gunship. A pseudepigraphic stolen third base.

In the hairline of adulthood, 100,000 tears have rendered my ornate silver alloy countertop unusable.
I am crippled by hunger. Not by the sensation, but the sound of the word spoken.
I can only make love like I was raised on a blanket.