Kris Bigalk

If you leave me,

I will carve
the shape of you
from an oak tree,
every curve of
your body
naked, bright.
I will smooth,
burnish your skin,
caress it with sandpaper,
stain it the color of blood
with a fine
Merlot.

In broad
darkness, I
will run my hands
over your wooden
buttocks, up
the bumps of your spine,
over the smooth cut
muscles of your back.
My body will catch
fire and glow,
ember-like
against your grain.

But your effigy
will not smolder
in my fervor;
he will stand,
eyes closed,
smile slight,
living the dreams
I’ve whittled
inside his head.

Absolution

I forgive the perfume of clove cigarettes
hanging from your head in curling, frazzled dreds.
Love is carrying water with no rest, despite
the alarm clock, a circle-burnt nerve, the television baby-talking
to itself, endlessly rocking you out of your cradle.
Its shadows wrestle with the distance.

I forgive the drunken worm behind your teeth,
the way your head blooms amongst clinking glass,
a shattered stone. The blood seems ashamed
of itself, a red line, a thread.
Grace is downy, silken; it blooms
like clouds in coffee, whitens everything
it touches with its whip.

I forgive your alphabetical orders,
your pine-scented tree air fresheners,
your small-tongued secrets.
It is hard not to love the glitter,
how it sticks to your fingers,
finds its way into your panties,
scratches itself into you
like bits of sugar.