i am the many-faceted diamond of your insomnia
and i cut away at the basalt of your head to find
lava on the inside. deer leap out, covered in soot.
a flock of birds with wings aflame. the first sign
is always the animals. the ancient turtle that strains
to move quickly, quicker, legs lifting against the weight
of memory. the squirrels with tails like tiny burning
brush fires. your head is erupting, spewing forth
your past in blackened char, your present molten
rock. you destroy with no intention of recreating.
the animals will never return. you will wake light
as pumice, empty in the sunlight.

for what it’s worth, i tried to limit my lying to you
to about twice a day and never before we were
to eat dinner together. nice tie, i said,
fingers crossed behind my back, so it wouldn’t
count. you said something gracious about my
dress and we sat, opening the bottle of wine
i love red wine, i said, corkscrew in my fist.
i snuck a cigarette out back, then sprayed myself
with the perfume of lust so you wouldn’t notice
the stench of vice. but sometimes i underestimated.
when you said you liked my mother’s lasanga,
i traded it with silence about the shirt you wore
to my sister’s wedding. when you asked me
did you? i kissed you a maybe but it was always
a let-down. but i never lied with my hands.
or when i had my lips against your skin, ghost
murmurs against tattoos blue, green, on the heels
of empty breath. i lied to you about the color
of your eyes and you almost, almost believed me.

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