My friend died last night,
his mother said,
so you should probably stop smoking.
But he was more concerned with giving
away his dog and shooting himself in the face.
Blowing raspberries didn’t stop
the advancing train that left bruises
on either of her shoulders,
or left her compacted
and hung-over the next morning.
And she was screaming like a banshee
trapped inside a locket,
when he finally bent her over
and said You are beautiful,
do not let anyone ever tell you any different.
She might have lost the polish
from driving a stick shift for an hour
or chewing them, worried about
deer leaping into windshields,
but that is why lesbians don’t paint their nails.
So when he finally slammed her foot
into the side of his dresser,
all she could do was lay there
and bite, losing more of her sheen
into the divots she dug in the skin on his back.