I Have Three Hands

It’s your fault that I have three hands.

The third being those rum-bathed lips

I grabbed a hold of you with,

Batman.

I remember Halloween: you got so drunk

that you perched on a chair,

shouted “nothingzover,” and

dive-bombed the “bad thing” hiding under the sheet-thin carpet.

It was then that I learned the blessing of duct tape,

taut under a spandex Deadpool costume.

Five minutes later drunk Deadpool and Batman

were framed by the outside,

making out under what I still swear were

these great combs of black, with carbon dusk and rope

clouds behind the sap stiffening in winter.

Five days later I was slogging through

onion grass and buckeye and rain smell

so I could lie to you

about never climbing that mountain that I was climbing

and would still be climbing on our first date.

It would be (and was) the only time I ever lied to you

I thought as you flew about lungs a-warble over

the rough, unfamiliar terrain. Make the ticks:

Gaspar Noé, your struggle to ice skate,

and how the smell was actually hickory.

It’s your fault I can’t have sex anymore

without thinking about my favorite director doing a

triple axel in a tutu while bearing down on me with the word “no.”

It’s your fault the sex was bad.

And it was bad.

Bad like nightmares about deep cleaning your apartment bad.

Bad like I should have left you on the first night you told me I couldn’t stay over

bad. Not out of selfishness or anger, but because it’s your fault that sex meant

selfishness and anger. You fucked with the words that I knew, and when you do,

you begin to vanish into your own name.

“Deadpool” became this thing unrecognizable.

“Deadpool” became something filling, meant to fill,

something poured in a cup or a recipe and I’m sick of being imbibed

because you were afraid of your dry well inside and

I was afraid that you couldn’t fill a hole with another hole.

It’s your fault I think about you during sex with other people.

Burn in the lye wash, I love you. I grabbed you with “I love you”

from those rum-baked lips just as your talk of Love

flew you right off the mountain’s edge,

staring down the half-cocked, dry well

of the city gunning for you, Batman.

It’s your fault I can’t say “you” without thinking of “us.”

Do you tell someone they taught you how to take the fruit from the poison?

I’m sorry that I can’t not find you beautiful.

I swear that I’m trying.

There was a potato from you in my mailbox this morning.

Eyes. Roots? Body wet with whiteout. Sharpie scrawl

that probably explained the whole thing but

that I didn’t bother to read. I almost didn’t

know what it was, it missing the rough earth

a potato wears. Maybe you’re rooted

in another man’s dirt. Maybe, when he peels

away the rough earth suit you wear,

all he’ll do is stop and stare. And maybe,

just maybe, it’s not all your fault that

I vanished into my own name.

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