Poem

The blood you seeon the toothbrushisn’t minebut whoa, let me lick that offfor you

Wait, she saysat the doorat the cara hand in my faceat the face of my meat bowlWait beforeOK – go

what is thistripe blanketsworn so not to sayi’m hungrybut stillthe bowlin the sinkcoatedwith what was missedwhen my tonguedonned its dinner dressalasi rub my facein the blanketto savethe savorof foodand knowlaterwhen the treatsare awayanother mealawaits