The Santa Anas have blown my breasts away
with all the climaxes I’ve collected

like pink-grey dust in the vacuum.
I am scattering

all over the land, all over the bodies of women
that are dead

and not born yet. Only one poor loser
who has never kept a dramatic bed

will spend her long life sweeping up all of me.
Not a chore

but a remedy of her own imagining.
Into a box labeled Lies

I will be taken, surrendering all the liquors
and creatures

from my loneliest fantasies. The polished latch
never takes its tongue out of me

unless my loser peeks in to account for herself
as if I will pulse out the music she can’t recall.

Oh it is worth being dust
to continue, to tingle with unkempt

feeling being hers. I am her life’s work,
so when she creaks the box open, a little bit of

the wound she has spent all this time healing,
her pleasure

now that I am dead, sneaks out.