You smashed through my house, 
Like a comet dressed in black. 
Your blonde hair – 
I wanted to pick up its strays, 
a sun I looked up and wanted to curse at, 
and worship
and maybe set on fire. 

Yelling at me about something – 
The price of beer, a bad business deal, 
A whore who crossed you, America. 
Your hair shaking from your own wind 
And I’m pretending not to listen 
But I’m drawing constellations, 
In your blonde bombshell word soup.

Remember when I was on your good side?
Always wondering how long I could know
Something so sharp, 
Your crooked knife smile, and 
Kooky baby eyes,  
You could slice through me with
Nothing but your eyes. 

Later, you’d recall 
That you’d hate me, 
And for a while, I’d find myself
Napping in the glow of your absence, 
Thinking of your stupid hair –
Like a field of wheat 
Lit by a lightning strike, 
Powered by one billion beats per minute,  
Always, still crackling 
Under my skin.