itching for the bell to ring,
ready to swing or explode.
He's wearing gray sweatpants, a white tee,
standing with his hands behind his back,
shoulders squared,
head down, eyes up?—
the uniform of a Tongue Technician.
I’m looking at Ben, haunted by Andrew.
Convinced that
if I keep Ben’s mouth on my pussy,
it'll cast out the ghost.
If I hand Ben my body like an empty grave,
he'll fill the void with his tongue.
Just as Raymond taught me.
If it hurts, open your legs.
Ruin doesn’t get mourned.
It gets fucked out.
Grief doesn’t get held.
It gets devoured.
When you’re sad—come.
When you’re angry—come.
When you can’t breathe—come.
When it hurts—make it feel good.
Even if it only lasts for twenty seconds.
“Somethin’s off with you,” I say to Ben.
“You know it. I know it.
“Get it out before you explode.”
He lifts his head, handing himself over.
Eyes on me,
throat bare,
