Your mouth was a torment to me
and I came within a hair
of telling you so.
Your laughing mouth, on that
video you sent me. Specifically, your
delight, in a glittering wave,
singing karaoke
Honky Tonk Woman in your truck
to your women’s ice hockey
team—bobbing back and forth
in your white oxford cloth button down
and loosened red tie—
And the green dots everywhere. Your
online engagements.
The sacral prana
flowing through
and over me, even
at that distance,
on my tiny screen.
I was next to the cement
floor of the peripeteia,
where weeks before
my brother, visiting
the same cousin
in silvery, wind-beaten Beaufort,
North Carolina,
nearly bled out at the foot
of the bed, a jagged glass
in his right hand. Were it not
for the crash, Tipper
would not have found
him till morning.
I’m not clear on why men
like you can take me
down so completely.
Why I think it would
be amusing.
You’ve put me down
from the get-go. Craving
is a hard mistress—a hard and
charismatic mother—.
Ask my brother.
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