lover, listen:

by Shana Bulhan Haydock

I let the “real” cat catch the mouse. I held onto some vague hope
you would devour raspberries off my still-trodden frame.
 
You were the snow devoid of footprints, the still-shaking aftermath
I would then reveal, all curtains awry, spangles and shame cast
to wood: dust, fragment, melancholy, retroactive shine.
 
My song, my lover, my ankles turned inward.
I still whisper when you don’t text me back. I still manipulate
these sneaking crumbs of earwax and snot.
Be the Q-tip that finds that deepest itch.
 
I am pulling hairs out. I am pulling skin apart. This perpetuated scab.
Sometimes you just have to scream down slides.
Be the red coat. Be the red scarf. Be the red beret. Love me anyway,
microscopes be damned.