by Kait McIntyre
Every scalpel has a silver lining
and I take it sterilized
with vodka and a blue lighter.
Glass rings grin from your oak
counter. Nothing counts.
Not even your tender.
A woman serves me and I take it
on the rocks, on the house,
on a wink and a whim
to explore a man-
like woman.
I swallow, not spit
her juice, knowing
it will curdle by morning.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment