print previewback EMILY VIZZO
Your Death vs. My Death
Here is the dab of paint sweetening
itself where the painter said live here. Religion a new
shoe. God living in her box. The storm
twitching in the street. The epiphanic gentle
ghost of string beans happy on the vine.
You rescued me! Lexicography a broken
light scattering the plains of your face.
You rescued all kinds of things! This is
second grade & its blackline caterpillars.
Be solved. The picket whitewash & its bound
braids. All you need to know about gold
& witches. Salt & queens. Death an easy shoulder
shrug. Princesses get drowned. Nick
Fish dies. Daughters make kings weep. Magic
happens. I sank w/the cannonball
into sardine tins. Italo your name between
my knees. Two dogs, one leash. Seven
sisters one big world. Viscera
tabled. A punchline every 20 pages. Key
bump. The special K. Her breath
a blackline caterpillar. Be marital
w/me. Be my three scoops. Be my less
breath less push infant resuscitation.
The use just two fingers. The Our
Father, the hour our daughter
died in the shower. My ear cradling
a monoxide beep. Carbon copies,
a Chinese dragon remembering
itself. The single impasto ruffle
surrounding a thirty-two C.
~
I know death
to be filé gumbo, a black
locket, une fille the men call
hussy w/her posse of satin
vegetables & illicit text
messages. The beautiful extension
clips in a gnarl of hair.
But your death is different,
I think, more margarita
rocks/salt, more house w/room
for cream. The simple order & $1 bill.
A reverse cowgirl. The strawberry body
spray. Because no one
really wants Ben Wa balls. No one
really wants the suck for blow. But you did,
didn’t you. You showed us
your tits. You pretended there was no
cell phone camera. You were all fun &
reindeer games. Then you were
just another purple dildo sleeping
in its clamshell sleeve.
That’s the kind of death
I want for you. The kind of death
that’s kind. Four double A’s.
A medium-security women’s prison.
A reverse namaste. What you thought
were Ben wa balls was ultimately “the long haul.”
Was the bed he built. Was the sharp object he drove
into your acrylic painting, creating a perfect
90° rip amidst the perfect yellow dots.
How we’d like another Shock
Top pitcher & some fresh orange wedges please.
“There was so much pussy.”
There was so much bone when I kissed the wall
your fist broke. A woman’s mouth can have
that same taste, patient. Hairlessness
& squeeze. The paper gun.
Because a boat can burn surrounded by water.
Because a man removed his mouth from my breasts to ask,
“Are these real?” Because no one ever says “She was a real
woman’s woman.” Because someone,
irritated, says, “I want to see
labia.”
~
You learn these moves
as a way to move on.
They’ll want the flap
shot w/those wings. They’ll
escort you to your car.
Your car will be a red Jeep,
because my car is a red Jeep.
When we pass each other on the road,
we will smile that smile people smile
when they pass each other in Jeeps.
Our soft tops exposed & bedraggled.
You will be dead. I am pointing
at my watch. There are groceries in the back
waving their expiration dates like glow sticks &
VIP wristbands. Every ghost of you
the punched out locking snap.
Durable. Non-transferable.
You need scissors to take them off.
When I said you were dead, I meant
your bride was next to you
hanging from the oh-shit handle.
Her white veil welled up in the Santa Anas
like August cumulonimbus. I hate
when people say the 210 is faster.
There is no secret route. Greek yogurt
isn’t only yours. You don’t get to say
the thing about you is that you love
burritos. Here your American Spirits.
Here your unanimous GPS. Here your
green flash & gray whale sighting.
My sex is the best. I claim the double rainbow.
The Pacific. “Red.” It’s my alphabet.
The sonnets are all mine. 
Sea Cow
Your Death vs. My Death