Tacos and a Pilsner in the AM
By four you had better be gone or
I might just kick you in the face.
I looked in the bathroom mirror and
sliced myself with a razor this morning.
The blood trickled out evenly, trails of
red glob tracking over my skin.
In the kitchen at the counter
in checkered boxers and a striped
polo shirt, I am eating some tacos sprinkled
with cilantro that is as fresh as a bird song
and drinking a nice warm pilsner
when you come in.
Just finishing a shower, shoulders and
thighs bright and brutal
from where the hot water scalded
your precious skin, you’re dressed in a
slip of a nightgown, light orange-colored,
Teasingly modest it shows off the soft curves
of your lovely ass
and barely conceals your nakedness,
your pink areolas and
dark pubic hair silhouetted holy totems
glowing sanctified and
suffering under the cloth.
You say gracias as I scarf down with the last
bite of my taco, and I tell you to get me
some tortilla chips from the pantry, and
that smooth salsa that you made too.
You reach across me and grab my beer
and take a drink.
Kiss me quickly on the lips. Tell me
to shut the fuck up. I pinch
the small of your back
hard and you squeal and pulsate
and bite my neck with your sharp,
obnoxious teeth. Your tongue tickles my
earlobe and slides hot and piercing over my ear.
We twist, embrace and wrestle; I grip your hair
and pull your head back;
push your round beauty of a butt
against the counter. You wrap your legs
around me, one of your hands scratches
the back of my neck, the other
knocks into the coffee pot
and it falls spilling and splintering into the sink.
I am rigid in you saying “I’m sorry,
I’m sorry. You’re wonderful.” You bite my cheek
and call me a fool as you
close your eyes tense
lips full and swollen, shivering skin
I feel you melt down my legs.
After re-bandaging my wounds with gauze
stinging it fresh with alcohol, you hand me
a butterscotch, take my head
into your lap, scratch my back, and hum a tune from
The Music Man. Love All Around.
I feel it too. In you, in the warmth of your womb
my head is resting against, in our
of intimacy, in moments when
the ideal is sleeping
and we are true, burdened bastards.
Incompetent, helpless, distant and muffled.
Like your scream
was when you found the mirror shattered,
worthless shards on the bathroom floor with the razor
and me in a bloody fit clenching to,
searching for the raw humanity
beneath the sliced skin of my stomach.