WOLVERINE THE X-MAN KISSES
His bones, lined with adamantium, are unbreakable,
so his lover is just licorice and moth wings
in his careful palms.
And tucked within each open hand
lie three knives, retracted,
but one thrust and snickt
(x, x, x)
whatever he holds could die.
What delicacy is in his hug,
but is this a fair relationship?
Before you answer, know this:
he is a mutant, able to heal
from the deepest of cuts,
and so to hurt him
she must kiss him.
Look at his trembling lips
as he leans in to hers—see the nervous animal
in his eyes, how it paces back and forth (x, x, x)
knowing there is no way out of love
but to suffer. He’s a mutant, but is he so different
from you? Have you ever folded yourself
into someone’s arms, unsure of yourself,
knowing what you have learned in your life
contradicted such tenderness, leaning in anyway,
lips separating, closing in,
the potential of blades
running along your bones
just in case?
—from Rattle #38, Winter 2012
Tribute to Speculative Poetry