Anne Marie Rooney

Exhaust in the love pipes

But good sun on me. My face.
Why do I not want to be abraded.
Abrasion has its antecedent: probable.
All blue and torn the growl is now
sticky, lousy-sticky, with salt.
Juice. Spoiled ovaries.
Who is fat, and feel the sun.
Feel the coffee in the neck: crack, crack.
I make a circle from her broken breath.
Each flower faking its fall.
She comes to me.
She comes to me like money. I pin up
my hair. Buy file folders. Miles of files
now sweat neatly. Still
the ground crawls. Sweet creep, I won’t
celebrate it.