Grandfather Clock

I am held close to you, my skin
being rubbed raw by your granite surface,
trapped as though your statuesque limbs
were truly adhesive duct tape.

Your eyes are two flames set to burn
in a field of snow-
pale as a fish, you wriggle, oxygen-deprived.
I am the worm and thus, though you suffer,
I am the true victim here.

Never mind the specifics, we are both
doomed to the same fate.
The bird that soars beneath the sun,
feather-soft and free,
and the fish trapped in some eternal watery grave-
Both will die.
And the worm doomed to tunnel
through the putrid belly of the earth,
and eventually end up in another belly-
it, too, will die.

For now, your cancer breath is
slowly scarring my organs, and your
your arms are around me, far too addictive
and tempting to resist, and I fall into
your embrace, as you- and I can tell
this by your breath- fell into the whiskey.

Everywhere your fingertips skim across me
I am tattooed with holes, as though a
cigarette was pressed against my flesh.

And me, hips like the Appalachian Mountains
rolling on against you so that you long to capture me,
I am truly green with envy.

But one day when I have conquered all
your flat, nondescript beauty,
I will hang you up in some darkroom to develop,
basking in the glory of the aloneness
that will be my true salvation.

It is too much to hope for, love. Your arms
like rubber bands are cutting off my circulation,
and I know it is at last time, as I surrender
to the tick-tick-ticking of the Grandfather clock.



Version #2:

You press me close, your
granite surface rubbing my skin raw.
I’m trapped, your statuesque limbs
adhesive as duct tape.

Your eyes are two flames, burning
In a field of snow-
Pale as a fish, you wriggle, oxygen-deprived.
And I will be your worm, if you wish.

Both pale-bellied fish trapped in water grave
and the worm in the belly of the earth
are doomed- one day, we will never
leave our grave again.

Your carcinogenic breath scars my organs,
and I fall into your nicotine arms, as you-
and I can tell this by your breath- fell into
the whiskey.

Wherever your fingertips skim,
cigarette holes appear, tattooing me.

Appalachian-hips rolls against you,
seductive and enticing.
Are you green with envy?

One day, your flatness will be conquered,
nondescript features flattering
in the darkroom glow. And, as you develop,
aloneness will be my glorious salvation.

It is hopeless, love. Your rubber-band
arms cut off my circulation, and, too
early I must heed to the tick-tick-ticking
of the Grandfather clock.