Black print

I don’t want your wrist, that wears
the bite for hours afterwards,
rope marks. I don’t want
you to wear that blouse, ugly once it is torn.
What do I want? Your courage, the sting
of your tears, that parting
like the lips of a wound, that says:
Violated. But what I want is cheap
and paper obvious.
Our force must smear
double-carboned, like your makeup, in the darkness
just as our plans, smoldering and old-fashioned

are already illegible. You’ll look back in danger
angry at what I failed to give you later.