SCOTT
Betty Doyle Call it what you want Scott blame the champagne if it really does matter, as if that whore denim and those laddered loveheart tights weren’t enough. Evidence against your Holy name. Make it blue, plead under that porch light that cross processes our dreams. You can run faster than any rumor or claim, a golden slash of a burnt mouth, screaming ‘Purple my bruises and black, my blood’. And mostly you just make me ill. I fetch you tonic water, and put you to bed as you cry For broken noses and rose-glass hymens. But you can call it off, Scott. We can sit in the pool of the mirror, with the heart candy of Those who grow best in us, Fizzing with belief, in good girls and gentlemen. We could be foreigners. I watch you sleep and you’re ugly, you’re an awful prince, All blue and perfect gold, All scratched out in hearts and quartz, Whenever it is late and I am used up, A handkerchief will be white flag to the mess I am. The diamond scalding my finger was your loss, Scott. You were the dark once, Tacked with lights; you were fuzzy under my thumb’s touch, Spitting wine, in the back of my mind.