Wisteria 

alarm clock angel of death who
ate my pillows. this is what to
do with lamb's blood when it's only 
diet soda. mark your door,
the white whisteria whose petals
were never sturdy. hang down
from the doorways, the garage
where my father's blue jeep digs
a grave to crawl down into. 
do you trust barriers 
& boarders? i craved
your body next to mine last night.
i wrote a poem about
your under the covers. it's gone
now. i curled into myself like 
a snail shell-- fist
of calcium carbonate. bone. 
used myself as a chalice to hold
a plague in. we agree that
i'm a morning person. we agree
that the sun doesn't know
my name & is as startled by
me as i am of myself.
in elementary school
i tried to justify the existence
of god to other 4th graders by
explaining the angel of death,
took a red sharpie & marked
an X on the classroom door, called it blood.
i wish i could sleep more. 
i wish you could see the sleep 
left in me. the stones. the stones.
i wish that my heart didn't 
ring with locusts. 
what have i done? water into
blood. the frogs dropping
from the ceiling. the hail &
fire. wake up early enough.
i check my door 10 times for
the marking. i want to hold
onto your body longer. as if 
bone returns to skin. as if
the shells of snails unfurl
into petals. every waterfall 
becoming wisteria, we smell
good. we smell like thunderstorms,
fire, & sugar.
this will not pass, you know?
this is the morning on
this side of the world. 
i wait, cross-legged. 
unlock the deadbolt. you're
asleep. i invite the angel in,
we drink tea. we briefly 
turn into steam & back again.
we do not find words
for each other, only blood.