Some Assembly Required
Alone, I learn the broken art, collage.
I see your hair around a dozen heads
too short, too long, too honey blonde, too brown.
Two weeks ago your body, pregnant,
played in Fairmont Park
swinging a small blonde boy
I thought I knew.
The head was wrong.
I saw your skirt,
the purple one down to your ankles,
moving too fast, too lightly tonight
on Browning Street.
Michelle Pfeiffer impersonated you, so amateur, again last night.
Someone suggested Terminator II. I knew
I'd be reduced to burning chrome and LED's;
I passed. I'll choose the pieces.
Given a shopping spree in WomanMart,
I found your jaw, your nose, or something nearly like it.
I found some fragments of your laugh
on the floor below the laughter shelf.
They cut my fingers, and I licked the blood.
but it was leveraged wrong, misbalanced,
out of trim.
I found the height of you; I watched it bob behind a cedar fence.
It's not enough.
Mary Shelley's monster haunts my night.
I stitch the patchwork woman, snug the seams.
I look for lightning.