Ocean

barely six months in
i lay down to read your
fifteen pounds of pages
i am laying
am i lying
under you
i seek to learn
some eternal,
carnal,
ancient truth
instead all i can see are ants
being pushed across a white desert
so i squash one with a wet finger
and the blood smears over the poem's title
mixed with a little peanut butter
breakfast time

a yearning to relate
leads me across the desert myself
an expedition with no water
i stumble unknowing on the white sand
until your hand rises from the page-puddle
and grips my fleshy flat heart
thumb into the aorta
like in biology class
when hearts were on sleeves and tables
and death was just something
that happened to other people
and sheep

now death, like water, is everywhere
i never could run very fast
but now i can only run backwards
like dreams that are secret nightmares
a sea of ants spewing from your throat into mine

i slam your wordless mouth shut
because everything can be fine
and i can still be good
if i keep the book closed.