Don't tell me to love this world, its surfeit of sweetness:
lacy pizzelles, dollops of anisette drops, ladyfingers, lady locks,
nipples of Venus piled on a wedding tray like hundreds of virgin
Cinching the bomb to her waist, the girl has this request--to clench a
sugar cube in her teeth as she drains her tea to the dregs.
I once had a cache of silver dollars spent as soon as my mother handed
my dowry over. What was there to save for? I planned to die young.
So I get this girl, her rush to oblivion.
Weddings, funerals, and all the births in between, old women cooing,
blood on the sheets like raspberry jam drying to chocolate, ginger men
made limbless, torsos snapped in two.
Then, there are those Jordan almonds favored at weddings: bittersweet,
slick white bullets wrapped in gauze to put under your pillow. And dream
of something new, some other world.