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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