Hair-Dye Pastoral
“I got a sickness,
sweet as a love-note”
-Steve Albini
These vines slimify ripe
skin—come, brush through spindle-
thick veins of hair that sweep
your flushed forehead. Mine: rusted fragments
of metal that hang
around my framed face, crimson-carved
rivulets of ruby as this body begs
to be blushed, loved by someone who doesn’t run or tug
me into a sickened bow (see: and arrow, or strung
back to shoot; with
present, presented for him
to unravel). But these sunroot strands stain into jungle—absinthe-
glossed and sugar-like—Christ, they spin fragile life
into a painted spit
mural that crumbles,
holding you to my tongue. If there’s a god, I just know
they made you when they still gave a fuck.
