Lick me with your warm
honey tongue. Give me your port-wine
You are your pale
clanking against mine.
Pencil erasers for nipples.
You are your blue
painted toenails and your bare
hands and your silver
nose hoop and your chipped
tooth. You are your ear
piercings that you wear unadorned,
filled back in with scar tissue.
You are your black tattoos.
Bottle you up for me: sweat and
chalkboard paint. A labyrinth
of stretch marks, belly button
encircled: iridescent tree rings.
You are your subliminal reach for me in the night
at night, she takes out the trash
it is that hour of the night when the mud of my leftovers sing out to me. her flat tongue is against my carotid artery against the counter when I smell it. over there. overfilled. avocado smoke. groceries, the forgotten, the intentions, the cupidity. the lingerings
fruit fly eruption. sullied diapers. freckled banana peel drop. wrung out, worn earl gray tea bags. my own little landfill. the mud of my leftovers. my strawberry ooze. ginger-tipped q-tips. holding my nose like an amateur swimmer. staggered dance through the lamp lit mess of the day, yellow drawstrings digging into the lines of my palms
dog eager for the outside, following close, longing for escape
and me too
I dodge the spider web, the garden orb weaver
moon is a streetlight is the moon
dense noise of breath. mosquito bite. tin can clang. owl’s neck swivels. shadow passerby. amphibian hum. river static
return to an accidental marinara splash a missed toss of a red bell pepper
that I don’t scoop out, that I don’t wipe up
white bag retrieval tuck
and I don’t look back
it is that hour of the night when
I am not mommy or lover
I am just a thing with shit that I conceal with the unsoiled