Concoctions for the Perfect Toast

I have broken hearts like eggshells
too many, many times. Cracking souls
with a fingernail, and watched them
bleed to my open palms in yellow
soft sun-yellow
and, like a pungent breath on the nostrils,
the smell of wasted love


but now that I have tasted
the tenderness of despair,
I sorrow for your shell
in which you were once safe, contained;
for your soul seeping through
split-hairline cracks and through
my wavering, meandering fingers
(oh I cannot hold you safe.
I don't want to-)

,running waste into the ground
where it lingers
then soaks into the brown bread
of earth

;for your body crashing like a waterfall
at the touch of my mortal skin
Do not cascade into me, so,
I am the rocks against which you'll break
and shatter like a sheet of glass


and I do not want to watch
you try to piece it all together.



My lips are sealed with midnight
(it makes the thickest balm), and spread
over with the bitter black
of a childhood memory;
when it melts in the heat of your mouth
then we'll have a drink for two
(you coughed when you tried to swallow
the heartburn was soon to follow)


don't you know you can't drink me down
don't you know you can't drink me down



I like my toast well-done
I like my men high-strung


yellow yolk is bad for your heart,
they say,
but baby,
magnesium is good for your soul