Letter to the Bonnie 'Prince' Billy
Bonnie, can I use your arms?
I woke up with an email
written across my hand,
and the memory of something like a dome light
left on inside a moving car.
I nearly drowned in a glass of water
Just like all those science teachers always warned.
Bonnie, can I use your lungs?
Can I use your hands, Bonnie?
A surfboard hangs over this desk like a guillotine,
the printer in the corner holds the string.
Your beard, Bonnie, can I use it?
the cats have been in the garbage again
soiled q-tips lie scattered across the carpet,
yellow at the ends like gristled bones
The first question they ask at the asylum
is whether one's ever had a head trauma.
Bonny, there's been too many to count.
Can I use your skull?
Once I built an aqueduct, Bonnie,
but now it's done.
The cats lick each other's butts over on the couch.
What more can I tell you?
It's taken this long to notice
that all the accidents left scars on the right side.
If you took a photo of my left half
and then flipped the negative around somehow,
you could make an image of me whole again.
Your claws, Bonnie, let me use them.
My fingers have turned yellow with tobacco
And even when I rub them against the keys,
The words won't do what I say.
Bonnie, can I use your wings?
They say I'll never be a husband,
because this lifestyle is too selfish.
They say I'll never be a novelist, Bonnie,
because my character doesn't change.
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