A Pair Of Scissors

You be whispering
Behind the smoke
Like some two bit
Diego Rivera
Without the paintings or the women
But with all the intention of
Fucking, like a hand shake.

You’re not a revolutionary.

But neither am I,
With a lame leg
Hips that go for miles
But not For miles.

If I ever have a daughter
I’ll name her Pilar
To replace all the bits
You and I lacked,
From collarbone
To the protruding
Dips of our hips.

She will never fall in love
With riveras or kerouacs.

She will be too
Occupied with the hills
Of her lips, the jaunt of her voice
In love with the dawn
That pours out of her skull
On winter clad sidewalks
Looking like fall
Is a gal in heat.

And I am no Frida,
But I am the folds of her skirt
Her gangrene toes
The flowers on her braids
Some days I am her braids
The rod in her hip,
The thing you look for
Blindly– only to gaze at

Like the view from our brick
Brooklyn apartment

In other words,

But you’ve been in love
With the unreasonable
The unnecessary
All your life.

I am no Frida
And you are no Rivera.


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