she liked her ribs tickled after dinner. Who knows,
maybe she thought it looked like a slimy sci-fi
thing full of nothing but need. When all there was
was forward and pondering barely intelligible lisps of lies,
when wrath was ice-cold and slaked like a lemonade of whys
squeezed into a thick yellow pulp, did they ever stop
to wonder how everything could have gone so wrong?
How limber, their now imperfect minds! How daintily
they could clink glasses with the polite society of their loins.
How often did he ask Can I ever be inside you and still feel
the need for air? Did rash waiting spread into a distracted
bounce of us against them? Do we really need to mention
the possibility that she turned around and told him to leave?
Maybe all he wanted was one more try before finally giving in
to the long hard blasphemy of damnation.
First appeared in The Homestead Review - Fall 2016
Included in my chapbook "The Allness of Everything" (Maverick Duck Press)
(To learn more about "The Allness of Everything," click here.)