emily snicket

i hold my celibacy like a paintbrush
and pretend it is an instrument of
unique and providential self-expression.
i try nightly to remember home. when i fail i
instead think of the white house up the road,
ruined by fire, clothes strewn across the porch roof.
i listen to my voice crack and wonder
how long it will take to sand it down until
it is small, flaccid, non-threatening.
i look at the vesuvius shadow of an
insect i crushed on the wall.
i feel a sudden fondness for it.
and i wade through the rain like an artist
having overcome the human horror of solitude
and become a grave angel, sexless and alone.