She brought a plate to his apartment
down in the basement.
Mac and cheese, made from scratch.
She sat beside him,
he was primal, four fingers and a thumb.

She reached for a napkin,
he grabbed her hair, held her still.
He brought his fingers to her mouth,
let her suck off
globs of cheese
and sauce.

She walked up to the car,
clear and quiet night.
She felt him somewhere,
saw his breath, heard his cough.

Are you going to see him.

He looks out to the lake,
a fallen branch, and back.
She looks at her key, bent
and worn, but still it works.

What if I want to taste you first.

He stomps out his cigarette,
long and hard, with every bone
in his foot.
He has planted himself, extended
his inhale to include her.

And when he fucks her,
and she says the wrong name,
he fucks it right out of her.

01/05/2006

Posted on 01/06/2006
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