Patriot

I write him one hell of a letter,
Curvaceous gold calligraphy
On robin’s egg blue octopus skin.

I speak of his broken cherry wood violin,
Our claw-footed tub of cobalt sea salts,
The vodka oaf
That steps on the train of my dress,
Fracturing my crimson velvetiness.
I mention the muted rhythm
Of anaconda shoes
On pearl and ruby hexagon tile,
The smell of hybrid honeysuckle
Down labyrinthic willow wood halls,
The whir of bees rising in my throat,
The swinging noose smacking my tight French twist;
I always knew it would come to this.

I’ll send him a letter
In a thousand years or more
To his weightless colony on the moon
Or his bubble world under the sea.

A light will wash over
What he uses for a face,
Touched once so forgivingly
That April he brought the rainforest
In his flight suit pocket
To camouflage
His traitorous love for me.