Jam in the Doorjamb
In an instant he has burned her house down.
She tells him she would like to climb inside
so he opens the door. It is wet in there,
coupled with a violent sigh much like a tornado in bloom.
He makes her toast. She asks for jam.
Her feet make a squishing sound as she finds her way
to the couch. She owns him now.
Yet the white of the ripple aches clean.
Not that there is anything less clean
than the inside of a person. Dirty, like
the handful of peaches he offers, slick and overripe.
She takes them even though
she would rather have been offered a gun.
There is a small room at the back of his throat
where he keeps a spare. It is loaded
like a small child. It is a fast moving river.
She bathes in his mouth. When she is finished
he offers her no towel. She stands there dripping
on his nice pink floor. Last night
he dreamt of her seventy-nine year
old father. He was helping him slip on
his robe. The night before
he dreamt of fingers. Someone kissing
the tip of the middle and leaving it wet.
In an instant he has ruptured
her train of not. As in, this is not what she
expected to find on his shag rug.
As in, this is not the sort of tea
he usually steeps in. As in, this is not his cup.
In fact, it is yours. You hear it whistling.
It likes to sing, too, but you keep it under
wraps so as not to disturb their well.
How would you like to stay the night? He asks.
You answer by nodding off. You are the last thing
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