“That dress fits you well,” you say, as you sculpt my right breast in the earth with feet no nails. “I hope you don’t mind me saying you look so good in that dress.”
Wet confession a blur of preconceived sins a litany to a downtown beat. You got me written all over you, honey.
You sculpt my left breast nipple erect.
It gets deep. In English that means the clay turns red.
You read from a paperback by the window. I tell you how to make me come.
It’s easy, honey, say you love me. I don’t care if you lie.
Bent over kitchen counter onions, garlic, peppers pressed against my belly
I am still chopping as you call out your wife’s name. There is no answer.
In a prayer to God or this hotel room,
I begin a slow undressing of everything I have ever done wrong.
The pile by the bathroom keeps getting bigger,
The lights don’t work here anymore. I have used up all the cords and eaten all the sockets.
I dream of suicide parlors, Civilized and fair.
Believe me, It’s no great feat being a terminal girl.
