Suppose we were lunar,
ventriloquists and sisters and bed-sharers still:
your mouth would open so mine
did not possess that dry cement quality.
If my toenails were painted,
those fingers would be a shade as pastel.
You sophisticate. We would dangle
our limbs on each other like they hung over a
bridge and could not betray us,
the fall would be interrupted by delicate lace
or that photograph of us in twin hairdos.
And when you hurt me,
I had to scrub your stench from my bones.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
Suppose we were lunar,
ventriloquists and sisters and bed-sharers still:
your mouth would open so mine
did not possess that dry cement quality.
If my toenails were painted,
those fingers would be a shade as pastel.
You sophisticate. We would dangle
our limbs on each other like they hung over a
bridge and could not betray us,
the fall would be interrupted by delicate lace
or that photograph of us in twin hairdos.
And when you hurt me,
I had to scrub your stench from my bones.
