Over Your Dead Body

This wasn't what you had in mind

when you said, A house by dint of the sea

this flat Japanese plan; this expanse

that stumps on a bunker of grass;

these swans hissing humans not upon the nest;

and vitex, the abortion tree scratching at the window screen

I don't think my mother was part of your ideal.

Or this dinner of wet chicken lobster and gin.

You meant Sweden, a kind of sober heaven

where you wouldn't have to think about God

Stay, stop the growth of love, if you can stand it here.

Soon your double material part will be nobody, no more.

Copyright World numbers Incorporated Mar/Apr 2004

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