it started with the first time



i opened the closet in my new



bedroom. paper flecks bursting from



behind the door. they had been waiting



all millennia. you helped



me pick them from my hair but even



weeks later we’d still find pieces



in between teeth — under tongues —



on shoulders & lodged beneath fingernails.



you were always so gentle as you’d release



them out the window — same as you’d do



for a spider. when finished with



a rainbow it is the task of the youngest



angel to put it through the paper shredder.



he crouches in the cloud mist — taking



handfuls of the body’s remnants.



he learns not to weep after years of practice.



the first rainbow he shredded was that one



that we tried to follow in your car —



driving around wet fallen trees — mist



rising from the asphalt. we never did get there



but we did stop for ice cream. you bit



the bottom off the cone. the sound



of the rainbow’s destruction was only a dull



static noise to us down here. i noticed



it but didn’t want to tell you. the next



time i was tearing open what looked like



a credit card offer in the mail & out



came the confetti. we had just stopped finding



it on everything — gushing like an artery



i covered my face until it was through.



mounds upon mounds of color. stole the rake



from my aunt’s shed we had used to rake leaves



in early october before the weather gave



herself over to frost. i resisted the impulse



to make the confetti into piles to leap into.



you were coming over & i wanted to be



clean. the next time we slept together



i transported myself somewhere else as you kissed me.



sat on the collarbone of the rainbow as



it was shred along with my hair. me, with the



thousand-piece body. me, getting blown



away by the first breeze. me, inhaling



the tears of the kneeling angel. i came



back to the room when you knelt,



spitting paper out of your mouth. confetti began to



pour out from behind my lips, miraculously dry.



each time i tried to apologize more came out;



you, naked on the bedroom floor trying to dispose



of the colors as they came. flow mountain spring.



flow slit neck of a pig. flash flood &



flow melted ice cream down to our elbows.



by the time it stopped your fear turned to anger.



slammed the door as you left & there i



was with all this color. i put some in my mouth



but it was too bitter too swallow.



if i don’t kiss anyone this won’t happen again —



i can keep it a beautiful secret. routine:



each morning removing the piles of cut paper.



when you come over i sometimes find them on your



skin. you don’t notice so i kiss them off



your neck. i’m trying i’m trying.



i peel the rainbows free & roll them up like



yoga mats in the closet. the shredding has



gotten so loud — i ask you if you hear



it & you shake your head, unknowingly.



i can’t stand it — i can’t stand it.



caress this color out of me.





