Dear Cannibal Quivering with Lipstick and Moonlight
I was nominally yours. You were abnormally mine. We loved with our fangs
out, our truths in. I licked fifty-six square inches of your lavendered skin. I begged
for the first two psalms and received your twenty-four hour flood. You hand-washed
six figs, fed me one per night. I listened for your three deepest breaths,
but your mouth was a drain painted Harlot. Spring delivered the first four steps
of happiness and I tangoed in the mineshafts of your moonlight, unsutured.
Summer sent us your slow-clotting cuts, your sugar ants, your human dark
with honey. It was all a little too sweet to believe in. The truth is just another way
of saying I always hoped you’d stop loving me the next day. And that you never would.
And each of those meals in between, I longed for your ingredients: your sweet cream
and your curry and your over-ripe bed. I stayed. Not for the cancer
or for your skin beneath me, but to watch your soft hands flutter and flay the green skin
of the mango, its glistening flesh exposed, alone on the white cutting board.
Salt Hill 26