In Multiples

Inspired by Anne Sexton's "Mr. Mine"

Notice how he has unwritten my limbs--
strewn them about the sheets, behind cushions and the rocking chair.
Now he gathers up what he can find
but my body will not be put together.
He tries to reattach pieces of the senses that have dislocated from my brain
and I am filled with fumble stumble shining hips and transcendental activist.
I speak the lexemes of a lover flung from her intelligence--
timble, runsing, gleaving, mahl.
I've cried out words in his embrace no woman ever knew.
I can't recall the spelling of even one such term or phrase
though I think that each was long
and multiply syllabic.

He has given me a good excuse for poor grammar--
The time I was sloppy with my sentence structure
he mopped me up with punctuation
dusted me with hyphenates
pinned me from the shower curtain rod by my apostrophes, and
in a passive and possessive voice I didn't mind at all
lullaby-ed right at my side with sonic consonance and articulate alliteration,
abundant assonance, certain whistled sibilance.
He is a linguist,
tallying the usages of slang across my tongue.
He is a neuroscientist,
collecting data from a mind of oxytocin just above the thighs.
He is an investor,
holding all his wealth within a circle of fifths and six guitar strings.
He plays nothing
and the sound of it reverberates, the nothing knocks me to my knees
where I will lie
bed spread and ready
waiting for the next few notes of silence.

They may not come.
And I will be the foolish eagle lying bald and bare
beside herself
in a most unexpected and self-conscious flight of guilt, surprise
upon devouring a pleasant play mate who had, unwittingly and suddenly, become her prey.