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I love my bad guy in the summer

when the salmonberries ripen, fish thick in the river.

Two FBI agents sweat in their car 

down the street from the house where my bad guy 

and I feed each other mussels in wine sauce 

and hang an EVIL LAUGH LOVE sign 

beside the front door. The agents are pissing in bottles 

while my bad guy and I study bank blueprints, 

clean his guns, feed our three cats,

fuck directly under every hidden microphone. 


I love my bad guy in the summer 

when they have us surrounded, 

when red laser scopes scurry across our bedroom wall 

and the negotiators drone on, endless offers 

they never mean to keep. The agents have cut 

the power, the water, have sealed off any possible exit. 

The ravens bickering in the cedars are our soundtrack

as we light candles, melt ice in buckets to wash 

each other gently, scrupulously, preparing 

our bodies for escape as we would for burial.


I love my bad guy as he packs me a getaway bag, 

tattooed skin glistening a beacon for the mosquito-apostles

that swarm to pay him homage. Outside, the FBI agents 

are promising us the world, but in here, where we steady our hands 

beneath our stilled ceiling fan, we already have it.