You have become public property I can
trespass anytime I want
and fill your holes with crushed tin cans
and toxic waste.
Every word you say is censored with black lines,
hanging off your lips like an arrest warrant.
VHR slots spin pornographic imagery
of you grocery shopping,
choosing the freshest milk,
flexing and lifting bags of flour. Speakerphone
mouths, announcing arrivals,
megabytes of information,
soldiers trampling all over recently fertilized lawns.
Your chest is a billboard
Your pounding, exposed flesh is coded
by the trickling of ink.
Everyone already knows you are available for the taking;
Prime real estate up the curve of your cheekbones.
running for the border all the way
down the curvature of your spine, like a crooked dirt road.
The state has declared your pronunciation of ‘mine’
a national park,
a plot point for one hundred public kisses.