santa fe, i lived there, by jay passer

lash me to a wheelchair with red silk
or rocking chair
she’s a dervish,
I had a Celia
she’s a lesbian 7 years older than me, it’s
Santa Fe, I lived there
with church bells muffled by the snow of December and
aspens depositing gold at dusk.
these days my skin
is loosening,
I’m jealous of women named Emily
who’s a tattoo artist
who’s a pastry chef
who carves poetry into the epidermis of isolation,
rigorously ensnared,
who knew love thoroughly
but never had it.
I’ve had mine like a one-night stand with
the Apocalypse
my own Celia; and
I paid for the salad bar and the
abortion, but
I can never tell if she’s lying to me or not 

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