Okay, posting this poem is a little bit of a cheat, as it once could be found elsewhere on this blog under Story A chapter title Bedtime Poetry, but I feel it stands well enough on its own to add to the poetry section of the blog as well. And now that Story A has been removed from the site, it can be a small momento of when it was the driving point of this blog. For context, in the story the poem was written by a young woman, so it is from that perspective.
Drinking My Boyfriend
You were grinding coffee beans
on the kitchen counter beside the crisp apples rotting in the pie,
saying you would not drink it any other way.
You also said that you hated nine AM.
But you seemed to hate so many things;
wearing your hates like ribbons, medals on a brash soldier’s uniform.
Yet you love apples, and fresh ground coffee,
They were so scattered and few, your loves,
and I would take them,
secretly collecting them in a vase, a small bouquet of delicate flowers with
So I poured myself a cup of your coffee, freshly ground and brewed,
deep, dark and reflective,
and I drank it, like I drank you.
like I drank your hates and loves,
your laughing, twisted face, your gaping, drooling mouth as you slept.
I drank your ten PM caresses, your three PM beatings.
I drank you,
your blood, your urine,
your saliva, and your seamen,
but not your tears. Those you kept, remember. They were stored in the closet
in a box next to my shoes and the pliers.
I drank you,
so that I could become drunk on you, sucking you into me,
because the thirst I had was cavernous,
and all I owned was a broken cup.