The Travel Channel by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

It took me forever to learn how to love—
to love wide open with the throat singing arias
with the arms waving like banners
with the heart bleeding flesh
with the entrails leaking
with that profound wound of womanhood
that waits for you like a bruised ripening hunger
that trembles for you like an unhinged moon
that weeps for you as you enter me without a sound

How to love openly is an art
I do it best in my head
without you
With the lights off   and the television on
winding rewinding myself
like your favorite rerun

Afraid   that you will see the old stories in my eyes
Afraid   that you will study my veins like roadmaps
that stretch across the sagging accordion of my ribs
into the rolling hills and deep divide of my conscious being
That you will mistake my matching carry-on luggage
for that cute set of accessories you will carry-off one day

to that land of used dreams without me
In your mind   I am merely a reflection of you—
a mirror with a memory
that unfolds now in slow motion
only after you’ve pulled out of the tunnel
and already left the station

The voice that—just before you switch the channel—
knows how to love you with its mouth wide open
and screams faster than you can say fast forward:
I gave you the remote    now I want it back!

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