--roll over SummerPeach. Footstruck on discarded
pits, this is scraped knees and these
are summer and here. Just here.
I think maybe you bled on the sidewalk?
I think maybe the injury was more serious
than a paper-thin facemask breathed out
[space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space][space][/space]to your parents? I think maybe
you died? It's like I should find another hobby and you
shouldn’t have wandered so far out but now he’s breathing you
in now you’re sucked over gums and stuck behind teeth,
rancid. You rot softly into your skin. Early August
juice. Sticky-fingers. This is the sound of him
breathing, and it’s too hot. Bottle-cap snaps, the pop of your buttons.
[right]now
Look away when I touch you, look away
At the rough handfuls of your hips
My meaty grin, the wet lick
of foam on the beer's rim.[/right]
Pulp-thick swallows, this grimy bar-light
pulpit is the only way I’ll ever catch your hands--
--too still and brittle fruits.