After a night of margaritas, you return
to your apartment and discover

all the guys you ever embraced: naked,
and tied to chairs. Prowl the circumference.

Notice the modest ocean of breath rise
and crash in each man’s chest. Rake your gaze

down their abdomens. They are exactly
how you remember. There’s Jake

who galloped into your life with his horse
dick and ducked out so quick he forgot

his hooves under your bed. And Charlie,
whose heart slipped out of your hand

like a wine glass. And Dillon, who drowned
in your fishnets like a minnow. And the architect

you couldn’t build a future with. The magician:
now you see his love, now you don’t.

The boxer. The Republican. The twins. And six
one-night stands. Weigh the heavy options

of each man’s testicles in your scale-of-justice
palm. Then pick one. Toss the live match

of your tongue into the puddle of gasoline
his brain has become. Pluck three of his chest hairs.

Draw the word Rapunzel on his thigh in lipstick.
Then whisk him into the nightclub of your mouth.

Notice his little hanged man come back to life.
When he’s tall on the guillotine, straddle him. Thrash

your hips like a rabbit who’s paw is caught in a steel
trap. Dig figure eighty-eights with your nails

into his skull’s frozen pond. Feel his head sink
like a pirate in your strange, blue chest. Yank

his ears till they dissolve like pills in the strong
martini of your hands. Let his metacarpals

vanish in the hourglass sand of your waist.
Then come like an axe through the roof of a dollhouse,

like a fistful of nickels thrown off the top floor
of a Park Avenue apartment building. See

how swiftly they disappear. All that remains:
a single heartbeat, smallest of pillows.