To think I concerned myself; beetle
fooled by pitcher plant. So ailing, I
was household to him: cranky voiced with

likely antidotes, recovery books
unread, his wrinkled ties. Heroin
devotee in my sheets. I felt his need

deepening, this most inauspicious son.
I endured. He pinned me, measure
for measure, as if he could be cured.

Not even the tell-tale roses roaming.
Not surf, impressing its need on the sand.
Nor the luster of recent peach peelings,

the satin plush of that life underneath.
A body wants to be more than membrane:
the curious seams of intimacy

in tumult, joints fused with cartilage.
The surface results in its bright purpose
when a Buddha becomes the lightning bolt.