for Alli Sheldon
I build you out of argument.
Dissension makes you live
the undead life between my pages
rather than the worlds you wrote.
I do not want what Mary Shelley made:
hard bone, electric light, the shock of pubic hair.
Just talk to me.
I'd eat your inconsistencies
and read the songs of my entrails.
Your genius frisson goads me.
What will I find in your dead book
to criticize my size and shape
as I reanminate what history
has trunked instead of gloried?