What do you remember about my plum skin?

Whatever you said when bit me is probably true--
but i wouldn't know much about my own 
skin because i've looked at it
so long that i have begun
to see myself as only a frog in the bathroom
mirror-- my own prince-- slick slimy 
and sexy as a caterpillar dream--

they probably said that i had skin
like a plum-- tight like a telephone 
wire-- tight like a lid of
blueberry jam-- tight like the telephone
wires we forget are making puppeteers 
of the street lamps at night-- 

do you trust the street lamps to hold up
our wavering voices on Sundays
when i find myself calling you?
i'm convinced you know 
what my skin actually looks like because
you told me that it's like a plum--

do you forget about the telephone wires?
do you erase them from the skyline
in an attempt to fain your own autonomy?
did we ever cut those strings from 
our elbows or did you just kiss me
enough to forget about the telephone wires?

i don't even like blueberry jam.
blueberries are too good to be tampered with.
if i could change one thing i would
have blueberry skin--

in my aunt's town the
wires are under the streets-- and 
for some reason it makes me
wonder if any of them know what plums
taste like-- or if they all believe
in themselves as amphibians--
voices below the ground in the winter--
do they call people they remember on Sundays nights?
do they call their mothers 
when they run out of blueberry jam?

and i know that plum skin isn't a compliment--
it's bitter like the closed eyes of frogs. it's dark. 
it's flickering like the street lamps. it's tight like a telephone 
wire on a Sunday. it's almost never what
you wanted to dream about when you're a caterpillar
dreaming about blueberries-- but darling 
can you tell me what i look like?
i know you of all people remember-- i know you
remember that you liked how sweet my bruises 
were-- I know you made some of them in an attempt
to turn my into a blueberry.

i know you don't call me on your Sundays--
and maybe your town put the telephone wires under
the cars-- maybe the frogs are listening
to this message-- but darling you 
know what my skin is like-- 

caterpillar dream
me until it's Monday.