Friday, 11 April 2014

9. Grace

Sucker. You walked
in my kitchen, slick
with garlic & grease. 

I slipped banana skins
under your furling
feet; you thwacked
your skull.

My paring knife
slipped a slit
from groin to gullet, and
I licked an oyster.
I shucked your skin.

Inside, you were wet meat.

I stuffed your cavity
with bärlauch and
whispered, let’s writhe
in allium, let’s coat
each other’s tongues.

We were on the floor
and covered in
hollandaise. Your butter
wriggled. I ate

your chunks with no
though of ablution.
Already too late
to say grace.

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