I keep all my lovers in a drawstring bag,
The kind you put dead men’s knuckles in.
If I loosened the string and upended the canvas, they’d all come tumbling out in a tangle
Of limbs, tarnished metal, scuffed shoes, half-cooked apologies.
Little squeaks of rage come from the bag when I rattle it.
They’re cramped in there, and more get tossed in all the time.
There’s never enough beer to go around.
“We didn’t ask for this,” one says, and I say shut up
Shut the fuck up.
No. You’re staying in there, where you can’t hurt anyone.
And when I learn how to encase a man in amber, you’ll be the prettiest fossil there ever was.
6 January, 2022