Quite the calm clammy feeling, it was.
Her palms with mine, dripping
smothery honey dew
juices all over our breakfast
plates in the morning.
Each shining dawn we’d sit
and eat as savages eat.
In a pit of pigs,
our spittle was as spears.
The sunlight would croak
in a fit of mud and reverie
with streamers and full spectrum confetti
floating down sloe rivers, glittering
canine teeth and gin. Such was the bacon
we’d eat. Oily, like a bird in a gale
dropping, unborn, eggs upon our heads
that would crack and ooze
in our hysterical eyes
with smiling battered lashes.
And as some of misfortune did miss us,
they’d crash down upon the hot black asphalt
below and bubble and fry
beside our stinkin’ feet.
“What a waste of youth!” We’d shout and
in the night we’d walk, I
and Grace, hands undone, in use.
We’d stop under dim yellowed streetlamp
light, unnoticed on a corner,
and Grace would look to me,
drooling diamonds,
salting thoughts in preservation, nourishment.
She’d smile wide like the moon would,
the lamp light illuminating
her pearly whites, and she’d bite
clean into her moist midnight melon.
