Love Letter

Who do you think you are, falling
in love with everyone, vile
blockbuster-romeo? I’ve been speaking
to God. We’ve got you pegged:

unholy paramour, poised
to put a sharp bullet straight
through my pissy little sugared-head.
Who do you think you are, braved

by the sour breath of ex-lovers,
rotten as river mist; pinched;
tart as a dead mother’s milk; who?
Your thunderhead-heart, all fists

and cuffs, speaks only: God. Jesus. Mother.
O. (Time to panic.) Time to remember
the color of God as he comes, heavy
and flat-footed, through the thoroughbred night.

You think you are untouchable, a knock-out
glow; unfit for Jesus (save once--that
was your loverly gift). This is the hot wind
where you’ll meet him (kicking to be tasted,

no handbook to guide you). O Jesus.
O Mother. O God, bury me in the gravel.