by proustitute

all asunder with you him under me
the woozy walls no longer walls but shadowed
life-sized Joseph Cornell macrocosmic boxes
into which his mother—for you fails and you fail
at the minutiae such as shrouding objects
in bubble wrap or else making the man
to whom you spoke semen-spent promises
feel as if he has been boxed in that one there
by mum’s Long Island kid gloves—buried a life

for aren’t all moves burials of sorts
even if this one happens just after a birth
after we have unearthed a possible us—the bus
I take now to get to your new river-flanked flat
nearly runs an elderly woman over at a crossing
the bus driver wailing “Fuck fuck fuck” lung-
deep we swerve witnessing nothing into the terminal—
though I know by now to trust no man who swears
to a breathless body beside him responsible for his orgasm

and so I let you go wondering where
your fucking mother packed my things or even
your Serengeti photos which would at least
cause me to recall the man for whom I fell
each box a diorama containing shards of a life
into which I barely figured—my life with him
is only at the end of this narrative outside boxes
in some new city whose dull rush we said we would learn
before your mother insisted on packing things for you

I buried a life too in order to be here with him you
the box with the rapist the box with the Russian bear
the box with the eviction lawyer I let drink my blood
because I loved him enough to hope it killed him—buried
gone but retrievable if you were to ask me about them
not duct-taped in unknown configurations only
mommy knows where the dildos are the cock rings
the first thing I found again to greet the new city with you
was a slim band of gold I’d hoped you’d slip back on

for despite moves and burials the memories
are unrelenting—Cornell could take any box and
rearrange items space temporality meaning itself (let him)—
but blood doesn’t wash off cleanly and the you I wanted
would have been bloodied open raw ripely vulnerable
so that I could pack your boxes so that I could know
your ghosts and begin to tell you mine—in a way
the walls could hold us for a time only before
the boxes capsized before and as you begin to forget