in 1998
you decided to roam
and our home became
two feet less than perfect

I laid out a spiral bound
wrote some words
drew breasts and labia
over the pages

later I heard
your dream came true
and a young woman
tasted good for you
that year

I wrote more, then
drew cunts
and cut them into shards
to line the drawers of your old desk

by November
lanced pages had red smudges
atop drawings of
broken hearts

didn’t mean to write a book
but nothing worked better
in 1998