I'm an odalisque in pieces.
_____ should happen every single time,
but doesn't. Instead it stammers
like a bike light.
You promise postcards
from the Atlantic Mirror,
then leave scarabs under
your thumbprint.
My gypsy window:
your fissure.
Listen, I got here
the same way you did,
taking heart in a stranger
who plucked music from my pudendum.
So make something true
before you go. Or don't.
I'll find it sooner or later.
My kind always does.