A DANGEROUS MAN
A dangerous man raised me, waiting
until I fell asleep to open the windows,
wake me with hail. To prove my loyalty,
I told him the ice felt cool on my skin.
A dangerous man made me
pancakes in the morning. He poured
brandy onto my fingers, recorded me
licking them clean and imitating authority.
A dangerous man threaded coarse rope
through the V of my ribs. He dangled me
from the chandelier, pushed on my small
dirty feet until I spun like a pinwheel.
A dangerous man with his nose on my nose,
(sweet Eskimo kiss, eyelashes on cheeks), his
thumb strumming hard against the chord
of my pulse until I made a sound like singing.
A dangerous man laughed until I did, too,
little scenes my lips reach for like an infant
to a breast: now only his face, now only his hands,
now only his arms, now only his rage,
now only the him in the me—the me dangling still
from the ceiling, the me spinning still like a top,
the me lifting drenched fingers to swollen lips
and biting down hard like my flesh was a peach.
fiction poetry "fact" photography