I.
I cannot write your name
without tearing the paper
and now there are piles
and piles of torn pages
and nothing of substance
written on them.
II.
Your name, spoken,
is to lick a lit candle:
fire and light and
the taste of wax melting
into the haze and snap
of pain.
III.
I would christen ships with you
to sink them. I would make
reefs of them, teeming with
the life of the sea, and then
I would slash myself open
on the coral in the deep,
conjuring sharks
and the teeth of sharks
into the blue-red-blue.
IV.
I would chisel your name
into foundation stones
to bring castles to their knees.
V.
I would bite your name
into the skin of my lover’s wrist
to break the bones beneath.
VI.
Whisper it;
scarce out,
to tear tongue
from the cave of mouth.
VII.
Think it;
aneurysm
and burst.
