I wish my antimatter had grown up
to be normal matter. It’s like feeling sad
for the faceted Swarovski crystal
on the Disney bracelet at the Dollar Store.
It’s like drinking the Cherry Pucker anyway.
Why does the past always introduce itself
after it’s already too late?—Hello, Lapsed Ovaries;
Nice To Meet You, Ex-Señor Right.
Every day my heart lines up
to ride the zip line between rapture and pain.
What if you wore a tartan kilt
and black Doc Marten boots? What if sex was more
than a means of making weather? One ex-husband,
no kids. I can guess what you’re thinking.
This could be the part where I unspool my antiparticles
and crash them into yours anyway.
Have you ever witnessed the exact moment the moon
punches a hole in the forgery of night?