A Partial History of My Death

A Poem by Molly Aldrich

My hair is a blonde whip,
you told me. My teeth are gargoyles,
the guardians of breath, but more beautiful
than a gargoyle’s stone dreams.

Why do we love the dead things most?

My hair but not my blood,
my teeth but not my breath,
find their way into your poems.

I haven’t the heart to tell you,
you will never touch the living of me.
The skin cells on my surfaces are a film of death,
a defense against touch.
Protein hair. All my blood
turns from vein blue to red and cold
before greeting you with hollow zombie eyes.

You are in love with the tiny daily deaths,
the body count of my body war.

You say you like yourself
because you don’t use the word “horny.”
She liked you
because you don’t use the word “horny.”
I should like you
because you don’t use the word “horny.”

Still, you have never touched me
but in death
and that horror love,
love of sex, skin, and hair,
is forgivable.

Because you don’t use the word “horny.”