Hold still while I kiss you with fireworks. 

Kiss me in a gun shot hole kicked through the night sky
-- blow back the corn-wheat like wig hair
and the birds will follow-- they're the crows for my
wedding-- the ones who got dressed in white just
for the occasion. This sad union between a coffee-stained dress and
my body that picks her fingers full of needles and matches--
Darling, I've tried stitching the veil-- blast-bombed-- we'd torn 
the tulle like a lip-- bite-- pull-- seam us into wig hairs--
break these bell-groans with your police batons-- crowd
control of my bruise buttons up the back of my dress--
did you know what it means to be on fire?-- how did we
get away with bursting so suddenly without a fuse?

Come here. Help mash blue berries on my dress 
to match all the bruises I have
worn as shoulder pads or buttons up the elevator of my spin--
Raise steady so we can burn each floor-- but leave my
forearms alone. LEAVE MY FOREARMS ALONE-- no
matter how loudly I say it I always come back there
to a graveyard of my nails dug in as tombstones
therefore rest my red match heads-- 
Bust-blueberry blood vessels. Sprawl in firework embers.
did you check your hair for pieces of the gun-shot stars
we made just to kiss under and pretend that there's no such
thing as tulle or crows? Is there something in fireworks
that make us more prone to love or are we just
heart- beat- hair-pinned fast enough to forget
that we have so many bruises he might mistake for blue
berries-- linger just long enough for a flash-- camera bulb-- 
camera crew who tells you to take off the veil-- no one
care about veils-- we want to see your spine--
we light love like bottle rockets with those 
red match heads--

Please don't kiss me with fireworks-- 
I'll use the dress as a picnic blanket-- 
and we can forget all the times we'd
performed for the crows--

Did he tell you to pour yourself into him? 
Did he claim to be oil or fire? 
He did it so he could eat your entrails like funnel cake-- 
powder sugar in your hair to tell you that you that your skin looked better
like a paper plate-- he erases your forearms with a plastic fork
and tells you how sweet you are and sweeter you
are becoming with all that dusty sugar-- all the gun powder--
all that breaking that only he could make you do

Don't flinch when I kiss you
hold still. 
LEAVE MY FOREARMS ALONE.
hold still. 
hold still.