Whore
People are texture,
color.
Artificial blue raspberry.
Earthy and smooth
avocado meat.
Boring and brassy
French vanilla.
This dude is
the deep sienna of
light passing through
whiskey.
I'm a frosty glass,
sensitive to heat.
Frothy.
Filled with faceted ice.
I am inhibitive,
with the opacity
of earthworm flesh.
Underage.
Six legged and unsettling.
The shiny gulls
in the driveway
are as big as chickens.
Some feathers match
the shimmery spots
of oil in the gravel.
They open their beaks
in displeasure,
cawing in warning.
Try to peck me
from between.
I only see the
Pollock of white splatters
that drop from their
assholes.
I don't believe I belong
in the bellies of birds,
so I suck blood.
Swallow.
A mosquito
feeding the flailing child
inside her.
He burns on the way
down,
makes my ice glitter,
tink,
pop
as it melts.
My frost becomes drops.
It leaves a pool.
It is August and hot.
Our skin squeaks,
sticks
and sweats
on the exposed plastic
of an air mattress.
He panics and stops.
I am empty,
unfinished.
I go dry.
Alive as bird feed.
My head will hurt
tomorrow.
He says I was
his first drink, too.
Accuses me of corruption.
"You are a whore.
Why did you let me do that?
You let me defy God!"
He starts to cry.
I learn that men
are fragile.
Need a vessel
for their tears.
Still need to sleep
in the gulls' nest.
Women deal with
the hangover
so their men don't drip
off the edge of the table.
Or the edge of
the earth.
What starts as some
booze in a cup
ends up large
and full of fish.
Full of floating garbage.
I become the floor,
the sand,
a gull,
the moon.
A whore for
holding him together.