This is how it feels to save words
for Wednesdays: it swells

against my ribs, which are weak and tired
of holding back a heart that is always straining

to show its face. The best way to describe it,
I think, is like a river beneath a city,

rolling and churning like when I boil
candy and I’m unsure if I’ve taken things too far again.

Have you seen the pink slime McDonald’s puts in everything
to bolster its bottom line? It’s like that, except if you bathe in it,

you forget that Venkman skips past brown stone
fountains and only remember that he electrocutes

his carnal competition. This love is psychomagnotheric.
I’m equal parts Dana drawing her bow across

a page and Zuul panting for you while I hover
in the in-between. I can’t even blame the Carpathian:

possession often feels like the only way out.