AIR TEA WITH DOLORES
When I think of dying to I think of air tea with Dolores,
air tea in painted tin cups in a crumbling gazebo—
what ever was more privileged than air tea with Dolores?
I have never been dying to have more than that.
For all my deadly curiosity, I never wanted to know
anyone more than Dolores, never wanted to know
anything about anyone more than the number of hairs
on her thighs or her dizzy-making breath.
Many of us die to know important people, after Dolores
I saw only people putting on airs. Air tea
with Dolores corrected the courses of shooting stars
but could not protect us from our predators:
after I was raped and nearly hung I decided to be a beam
in the novas of her eyes, and I believed
we were separated because I no longer deserved
air tea with Dolores, the tipsiness of her breath,
no longer deserved anything, anyone, and no more would be able
to die to know even one profane secret.
I know more about heaven than I should because I know
it won’t be as lovely as air tea with Dolores.
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