Bulldoze the bed where we made love
bulldoze the goddamn room
Let rubble be our evidence
and wreck our home.
I can’t give touching up
by inches, can’t give beating up
by heart. So set the comforter
on fire, and turn the dirt
to some advantage - palaces of pigweed,
treasuries of turd. The fist
will vindicate the hand,
and tooth and nail
refuse to burn, and I
must not look back, as Mrs. Lot
was named for such a little -
something in a cemetery,
or a man. Bulldoze the coupled
ploys away, the cute exclusives
in the social mall. We dwell
on earth, where beds
are brown, where swoops
are fell. Bulldoze
the pearly gates:
if paradise comes down
there is no hell.
-Heather McHugh
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