Entrance

the guts 

are full 

of switchbacks,

stoppages, rumble strips 

and we call it love 

it’s the gut feeling, the tenderness 

of a gold tapeworm eating itself 

pressing our faces 

against the shower glass

the water pools 

on the floor, the room 

is fresh with roses, blooms 

of infection erupt 

where we touch 

our laces are loose, our heels

hardened, here we are

two tempestuous butterflies 

throwing our belts 

against the door, itching 

like an entrance wound reopened

the reddened passion has  

swelled for sixteen brutal years

we are bruised sore, bumbling 

for an exit wound

__________________

  (Nov. 1)