love triptych

I.
thinking about you
makes me
hungry,
and sometimes i feel sick.
your eyes, clear as an actor's, start a fizzing inside of me
and iridescent bubbles glimmer in my
alimentary canal,
shyly glowing a little, if you know where to look,
and it gets so i can't talk to you
(as if i could, anyway, come up with
something to
say).
more often than not i blurt an excuse and
flee--
cramming my mouth with pears and apples,
poor substitutes for your kisses.

II.
dear,
biting through your tendon
was a time of my life:
feeling the twist against my teeth,
the vital living flesh,
tatsing the iron blood as it coursed down my lips, your neck,
like some furious-german river;
your skin so tender and thin, your blood so pure, distilled as
bottled water;
the little gasp when i punctured
will stay with me forever,
aurally erotic legend.
and so will the knowledge that now, inside me, there you are,
atoms mixing with my own, molecules unwinding
and (kindly) rewinding again;
"you are what you eat,"
and i love you.

III.
onscreen,
the cleft in angelina jolie's lip
reminds me of you;
at home,
the plates remind me of yours, the first time i saw you--
cafeteria lasagna, that thick white industrial china
(easy wash).
when i'm driving sometimes i stop in the middle of the street,
horns our symphony,
catching sight of a boy in a beret biking
or a graffiti'd up stop sign
or, god forbid, a rainbow.
babe, you've ruined
a dozen songs for me;
two tv shows, four movies, make me curl up and cry.
and the phone, christ, the phone!
it can't ring without my first thought being of you.
too bad you won't let me call anymore.