Here's A Poem I'm Writing

It's based on a dream I had during the time when G wouldn't stop selling things on the internet. I dreamed I'd found an ad on Craigslist where he was trying to sell his feet, and I came home, and he had them cut off and sitting on this awful piece of cardboard...like a dirty, blood-smeared cardboard tear from a box. And I was very upset and told him that he could not sell his feet on the internet...and he told me that he COULD and that I CANNOT CONTROL HIM and they are HIS FEET ANYWAY, etc, just like it would have been in real life. But the best part of the dream was that after he was done yelling at me, he got really whiny and insisted that I help him to the car and give him a ride to the place where he had to go to sell the feet, because he needed help, obviously, because how could he be expected to walk without his feet?

The poem is bad. Don't judge me. It's in process.

Let’s not deny that we are in a crisis
tonight, with our dirty hands
and tired eyes pointing
downwards.
Let’s embrace
and face our great reckoning.
It’s clearer to me, now,
that you are someone I am meant to know.
It’s all becoming very clear.

In my dream, I was upset
with your plan to sell your feet
on the internet for fifty dollars.
I’m doing it for us, baby,
we need the money right now,
and besides, you can’t control me.
They’re my feet.
Now help me.
Isn’t it obvious?
I mean, I can’t walk
without feet?

The day I spent in the psychiatric emergency room
attempting to rest in a too-small chair,
the 5 hour wait and my toes pressing the fronts of my shoes
wreaking panic,
I read stories of women’s weddings
in the Weekly Woman magazine
and thought of our own, and how funny
against their mango calla lilies and champagne
our rough sketch
wrenched heart-first from an affair
by the weird provocation of god and government,
made ridiculous and legitimate, signed and sealed
with wax melted in a feverish heat.

I have not trusted you,
have not trusted a love that might dwindle,
have not trusted your mind to sit still,
have not trusted your eyes to see me
have not trusted your lips
have not trusted in your return

You have made my love ridiculous
and now, with my heart on fire
I wish you would die
I wish you would leave me
I wish I could kill you
I wish I could unlove you
and I wish for the end
of this endless payment
for the sins of my father
for the sins of the men
before you
before me
for the round, drunken sins
for the flesh-hungry sins
for the world I did not make
the world of my unmaking