CHICKEN BREASTS
He flushed my shirtwaist over this bubble-drain
that clenches under the floor a nocturne of the peril maxim:
break the skin of pain, soft implosion-notes on jellied fruit
driving up to the teeth of his lust. Crawfish eyes sucked,
popped, reft of beauty, my waste merges with positivity of loss:
we used to patter enraged towards what now glows
as much as anything else, lil patriots
permanently out on the town.
The dried bounty of my loss has been burnt on drying
wrecks senseless of the larger bounty, and gives,
dying the blankets over which it is cooled in the amber
bedroom of pleasant sojourns and diurnal rest.
I'm a wreck of fashion, becoming precisely a wraith
of lassitude up to the grease-trap where face slathered
as if with remorse in hair, tallow, frying muck, splits
asunder or is chorefully drained. So much for shunning
the torches of panic: clutching my ragged skin for another ride,
board up for the work-district, flick distention into the token box.
Such that we are no longer niggardly with our shameful supplies,
but blow out the ear of taste with munchies and burnt recipes
he corrects, he ladels, in the pine forest I picnic on nipples
if there's nil else and gaze radiantly from a bared rock
sun or no sun.
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