Glue Gun
Adi Martin-Rueben


when I say “I am sorry” I mean
I am asking you to edit the first draft of me
I am laying myself out in twelve point font, times new roman
like the chipped crown’s plaster castle
in the dead-center of an ice-born glaring winter,
and i will print you into a postcard
with your sharp things and bathtubs and water balloons

when I say “there is nothing left” I mean
I want to be held at the corners like something you intend to fold
thumb and rusted rugburn chin, blanket skin
standing in the choking moon’s direct line of fire
as the weight of the cold woven belt of orion
splits light with unearned precision

when I say “do not worry” I mean
there is a portion of me with the volume turned low
where we can invite ourselves in, shoulders hanging half mast
drinking the glaring red from the backs of our eyelids,
each backache pressed deep, soft

at 3am, tvs huddle against shop windows
playing our deaths on repeat in black and white,
and i watch the way you tilt your head
in that instant between ash and flame, mouth parted
an arctic smile spinning on the brink of everything

sound in its immensity will be stapled shut
the earth will come to a long awaited stop
and I will stand on the whitest ice of mount everest with my fluttering stilled.
you will be pressed to my cheek throughout all of this,
baby bird laying low
blue jay, winged thing
 
 
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