I aborted one, then another.
Legs splayed to a darkened sky,
the city is hollow, cavernous,
a mother buried with dead-born child.
I popped a pill, then another.
Chained, sweet to the taste, I will never
linger like salt collecting on painted shores,
coarse to the kiss, but madness cannot be.
I called for you, then another.
I will rewrite this poem so their love,
a small heart gaping open
ready to bite, ready to roar, forgives.
I wrote of love, then another.
I stroll the streets with a fork in my mouth,
its whiteness reaching from
my caramel skin, a three-tined tethered tongue.
