I Am Talking Dirty to You Like You are the Only One in the Room

Down to the boneyard, then. And dig your corpse and
with pliers pluck out one after the other its teeth and plant
them in my very own mouth. Your happy clackers to mitt
my sweater sleeves, and when it's time to lightway,
your gall. My gal, Mister. Gussy in your worm drenched
nerve, and quick with the pink Catawba.

Hammer-ended kissy face, I chap your coffin and bag
your footsies. Sure you have the numbers one through
one hundred. Sure the musical renditions, the Chinese
artifacts, all facts, all figures, all spittle-scripted marginalia.
I've got naught, that's the beaut. I've got a nickel and
a hangnail. I've got your nails catalogued, ready
for stringing. Underside each, a grave grub, and in each
grub, one of the many letters you never came out with.

Oh, did I mention? We got ourselves a renaissance of can't.

Copyright © 2007 Danielle Pafunda All rights reserved
from Black Warrior Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission