Alta,

I've had it with a girl that

loves me at her own convenience

until she finds the bed of a

blind man

so that when she opens her legs,

he can't see the scales

tattooed on her skin.

 

She has too many faces.

I'm sure you've dealt with her kind—

new heads that grow from

necks severed seconds ago.

She primps and preens,

prepares those faces for the

faces she will meet

and later be.

And these faces don't always

agree

with the things that they hear—

one mouth

tearing another's ear

and promptly licking the wound

clean.

 

And I hate to admit it,

but in her eyes there reflects

three versions of me

all trapped within the

black glass beneath her lids.

They are wringing their hands

screaming

            Out!

                        Out!

                                    Out!

but they are drowning in the depths

of what we want to achieve.

 

Alta, Alta, what do we do?

None of me are willing to sneak into her

lair

to take care of heavy housekeeping—

untying heads strung

            from stalactites,

            covering mirrors

            with the cloaks

            off our backs;

 

            we have mined new caves

            for her to snore her serpent dreams

            beneath fresh water springs—

 

No, we have tried,

            we have tried…

And now we are more compelled

to drag her into the sun.

 

I want to,

we want to

            make her

            see.

And we want to

            blind her

            with the weight

            of our pens.

We want to

            choke her

            with the letters of your

            printing press

 

 

                                                            please.