THE FORMER REVEREND   He said he was a liar, so deeply in love with himself that his fortunes had increased while he avoided gay sex, drug use, and memories thereof. Despite the scientific method, he still said time couldn’t evolve an organ like the eye that plants sexual thoughts about men, soldiers who look gay to the confused ego. The brain rut of falling into sin and failing to feel shame creates twisted love, gay bars in every mall at the end time. Self-abuse he admitted later on, drug-taking in the telling also turned up. Can a sexaholic love? On Divorce Court his wife’s loving eyes suggested yes. His own abuse a childhood flash that flowered every spring. He fell heavily. He fell among thieves. He forgot the chirp of his car’s remote or how he bought his personal trainer’s love.     A NURSE WHO LOVED HER PATIENT   I know my nurse loved me. For hot mouths and months we knew no shame. A few encounters beyond camera’s eye did not harm security but panting love went on my love your cell phone’s flashing eye in bytes of time lights your body’s picture and your husband’s name. Love letters I hid inside the ceiling with my knife, recall the drug of love, the sex so quick— You lost your job. They fired you. Your husband left or you left him, TV crews and reporters, confusion grew. I listened hard, you loved that fact. The other memory dropped though you knew what I’d done, love choked just as I cut my mother’s neck that time with a blade. I burned her room just to increase the smoke around your eyes and still love swells, my muscled arm rippling in your sight.     FRED ENGELS AND MY TEENAGE UNCLE IN DIFFERENT FIELDS, AT DIFFERENT TIMES   The earth a slaughterhouse, red snow like the grape juice at Auxerre in ’48, left on the street. Herr Engels cuts across the field where his mistress Mary waits, white arms open, holding the bottle she already tastes but the greatest pleasure he knows is not training for revolution or how she will please him tonight but fox hunting, blood-sport in the field, his horse above the hedge, landing on snow, playing with millocrats. The cotton spins into the night and the god-ridden capitalists leave the fields bare. He’s a godless millionaire. Children drink cheap schnapps in the open streets, at night when Mary eats tipsy-cakes, drinks ale. She says, I’ll never leave you alone again. I’ll never weep like those young women do. Does she know when he clutches for her at night that history is a snow goddess who walks on corpses in a red, red field? * Before the fall of bourgeois snow, he feels bored, puts his hand into her cleft. They drink Château Margaux all night. The bottle open on her lap, she seals his reach with just one kiss. The left’s tedious scruples do not bother him in the dark. This sleeping French girl knows nothing about him—lying splayed in the field he sees the snow left purple with the dye of the cotton mills belching at night. The reactionary victims would not know even after the melt that dialectical materialism was a field whose crop only grew at night. For example my uncle knew they buried all the bodies after dark, after ’45. He’d never tasted Château Margaux or considered the angel of history. Digging was hard too in Siberia, in frozen earth. My uncle used a blowtorch to warm the grave. He had trained as a mechanic. Now he fixed a simpler problem— open heat on permafrost.     FAILED STATE, 2007 to Britney   She holds one son and grips the wheel below the helicopter’s racket. Sean and Jayden wasted on her man as the cops flutter above her rattling brain— she checked out of Promises early. From TMZ video you know all this. Like an unregulated angel she sweats the influence of her goddamn dad. She puts the boy down and touches her head. What she wants she wants now, Brit guns it to the convenience store the kids will sit and oh shit she has no money but a British accent’s like a credit card, right? Death and fat and puffy paparazzi crowd her quick into the truck. When she attacks Dano, bald and umbrella-wielding she spits on every sloppy-waisted fan who wants her to die like an angel bleeding in lockdown whose last hit she can’t recall, driving, eating, wasted.  
  Maurice Mierau is the author of Detachment: An Adoption Memoir, and Fear Not, which won the ReLit award for poetry in 2009. The poems here are from Maurice’s new book, Autobiographical Fictions, out with Palimpsest in the fall.