That night the screeching telephone was some slack-lip
Siren, luring you into her brackish grip, thirsting to gush
Over the birthmark you called your trademark. A fruit
So swollen, juices almost run from it. You got up
From the table, the way you were hunched over like a child
On a throne of tied sticks. Soppy tyrant. Those days you
Exhausted on fearing the one who could take the mirrored
Slab from your mouth, the one with grime-slick handprints
Who could dirty your work shirt. You’ve been waiting too long
For your ride to come. Swallow your pride like I’ve swallowed
Your load. A bone surfaces in a butter cookie: hard-bitten,
Sweeter than you could have ever imagined.
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