rhythm

I am counting
the articles of clothing gone

holding services

for the underwear lost

the favorite yellow lemon stripes ruined

by new born rust

the socks 

forcibly divorced

I am counting beds

ive been in

stacking them on top 

of one another

and by god

the tower is starting to lean

(when will it crush me?)

I am counting the disappointment

by the number of silent mornings

i drive home to the ruby clouds

by the negative degrees

by the greedy minnesota winter

nights swallowed

and the number of prayers

in my car

that it will start

i pray to fucking god

it’ll start

because 

i don’t want to go back

to beg for anything

don’t want to

face myself

I am counting the celebrations

when it does

finally start

and when the engine moans

it has mostly sounded better 

to my ears

than anything did 

the night before

I’m counting the times

ive stayed 

silent

the times I’ve thought

I really should nail down

the definition of rape

I hold court in my head

i use the steady motion 

as meditation

I put him on trial first

then myself

I run from the judges bench to the jury

i end up on the stand

until i am jolted awake

mostly by stabbing

sometimes pleasure

I am not counting the poems

I try to write about my fucking body

or fucking

or consent 

anymore