the memory of your body
in my lap

press your body 
into my lap again
one more time &
i'll pull your six hairs
through my fingers 
& call you lover--
your stomach all
echo with a song-- i'm
reaching for a note
deep with in your stomach--
you let me dismantle
every piece of song 
you ever try to keep for yourself--
you're a martyr like 
every one who loves too much--
you tell me to finger you 
c-chord again-- without a capo
this time-- you want to be 
open & you like the way
my thumb presses up against
the back of your
neck-- you ask if
i will out-grow you & 
if i love you like
the resonance that
murmured in your hip
bones when i took you back
to the coffin--
laying down you think about callouses
& what it would be like
if you were in love with someone
who wanted to make
a life out of laying with you--
i am a fickle musician--
who buries instruments
in the back yard under
the pine tree--
the crooked mouth piece
of a trumpet haunting
the staircase with a ghostly--
bent-brass version of taps--
the cracked reed moaning of
the oboe-- the same piano
key played on the heads
of the buildings on 
main street that jut out
to leave silhouettes on
the bruised skyline-- i
use your body as a tool
to paper machete love
songs for boys--
i thump your chest with 
the back of my hands
under a canopy of 
firework & untuned august--
falling out of love 
is as loose as your six hairs
slowly lilting into
dissonance-- un tune
with me-- strangle 
yourself with a capo--
this time i'll lay in 
your lap-- carve my
hips out of wood--
keep the chords knotted
somewhere in my stomach
for your to reach in
& yank from my 
six quivering
strings.