MICHAEL RUSSELL

In the bedroom—three planks of wood nailed to the doorframe, deadbolted with a sign that
reads: RAGE. The dresser is matted with rose petals, orchids withered and strewn across The
Dark Phoenix Saga.

Jean Grey is dead.

Her spine limp as a broken promise, corpse held in Cyclops’ arms, the melodrama of a space
opera wrung wet under a water bottle. The Ten of Swords is tucked in The Dark Phoenix Saga
like a bookmark, it warns:

                  Get out before…

the record player’s static spins
a man into a boyfriend,

a boyfriend into an ex
                            an ex into a spider

web, each thread, a silk nightgown
for the dream of my body

                                      (a fruit / fly)

woven into a bowl filled with malt
vinegar and dish soap /

Behind the manila curtain, he hums:

Sweetheart, there’s something
about the way you live your life
that makes me want to puke.
When I look at you, I see a wreck
-ing ball, a demolition, a boy
who needs to be fixed, strung,
smacked around like a mannequin /

    The record player dreams a man
    into a boyfriend, husband, a life

                                                       sentence

               when, again, he reaches

                                                      for the ridge
                                                      of my wrist

hands gloved with latex / ivory,
lips blistered / sequined

in coral gossamer, naked, he conjures
the spirit of my rapist. Calls him

into my blankets, mattress, sheets,
hoards the clippings of his fingernails,

drags each syllable
                              when he asks

                                                   Do you like
                                                      how strong
                                                          I am, boy?

                       *

In the living room, I wrap my head in plastic

sprout from the shit black, almost / phoenix.

                        *

You’re not allowed to write
about that anymore, he said
after the poetry reading.

In the bathtub, warm water
wraps my face in cellophane.

I hold my breath and my heart
tightens into brass
knuckles, punches
the clear plastic of my insides.

No more suicide poems.

My lungs grind and hammer
against cellophane
ribs. Stretch, rip.

No more rape poems.

My chest melts when he says it,
burns slowly, as his fingers comb
and tug the wet tangles in my hair
sew a poem into my ear,
needle the title: First Love.

            He stitches the lines
            into the fissure
            of my mouth:

Honey / I’m sorry / for all the times / I mistook lust for love / although…

He answers with a simple No,
which means:

                            Wait.

                            Until I can best
                            pull you apart

                            in private

                            ligament by
                            ligament,

                            rearrange
                            your skeleton

                            then ask:

What’s wrong sweetheart? You took the knife that cut the throats of everything you loved, you
watched the blood guzzle, you stood in the rose petals and still you stayed.

                         *

When I rush into morning’s blush, hawk-eyed, I perch outside the veranda, wait for two sparrows
to sketch the sky with a rollercoaster pendulum swing that reminds me of us. I clench my tea, lift
sugared peppermint to my lips. I can taste your sweetness when the sky burns scarlet, gold.

I hate to admit it, but—
the nights after fights are

                          —delicious.

Your kiss, a sharp mint when our limbs tangle and pull, your canines slick with pheromones and
sweat, the darkness pulsing with moans, I love you, tempered against each thrust of the bed.

                         *

                          Yet, still—
                          the leaves

                          rustle above
                          the window

                          where you sleep
                          chime an oracle,

                          rattle and maim
                          the quiet,

                          scrape the calm
                          from my skin

                          like dandelion seed.

                         *

Thwack, the knife splits the chicken
thigh, peels back the uncircumcised

hood of skin, loosens to a wiggle
the parasitic hip, the wriggling worm

of it, gooey tendon, wet rotation / snap /
the record player contorts a man

into a boyfriend,
a boyfriend into an ex,

an ex into an echo of my rapist
  / snap /

there goes the chicken breast,
flattened ribcage, bones

crushed into pixie dust. Thwack.
A knife butchered neck / throat

fucked on the side of the bed
after he ripped The Dark

                               Phoenix Saga from my hands.

                The record player
                drums up a man,

                drums up a prison
                sentence

                when he unzips
                his pants,

                spreads eagle
                his thighs

                asks why

                don’t you fetch
                your little comic book?

               Again,

               I corpse in the fiction
              of a made up gentleman

              again, I’m the Dark
              Phoenix lost
              in another

              dreamland again,
              am I fire? Yearning

              for flesh, talon
              I am
              the screech

    of a record player

       scratching a man
              into a boyfriend,
          a boyfriend into an ex,
      an ex into a living question
    mark: Sweetheart,
                  if you could tell me anything,
                      what would it be?

Maybe / that my body / is smoke / and sizzle / fried / like chicken / every time / I ash / inside /
the deep fryer / ash within / the oil’s curdle / the bone / splitting / of a traumatic memory / ash /
the grease trap / ash / the grease fire / I’d tell you / I’m the only one / with enough power / to
burn /

this motherfucker / to the ground

NOTE: The line “Honey / I’m sorry / for all the times / I mistook lust for love / although…”
borrows and reinterprets/reworks the same line from my poem “First Love” originally published
in Baby Teeth Journal Love Lost Issue