On Licking Fresh Blisters

secret dirty splits.
he was the only man
to slice my thighs
wide open. back woods.
'92 ford ranger. he called her
dead betty. said she was
his baby. i was on my period &
had been thoroughly fucked
that morning.

he dried dope on his
heater. diligently
positioned each bud
four centimeters apart.
fingers twisted into
schematic operation,
he had a thing for
new buds. wanted to keep
them distanced. i told him
i had seen her, briefly.
walking into the corner marathon
in sweats & ponytail. i tried to
make contact. but she couldn't see
my welcome finger
extended.

suddenly there were
crocuses in the air. he choked &
set about making poems
out of wisps. he was always
making poems out of
nothing, silently
composing in his head while
i waited, crouched, fists
clenched. ready to pounce
on his first
word.

it never came.
i licked  each fresh blister.
twisted into five thousand two hundred
ninety-one sinews, reached out & ripped
three dead leaves
from the nearest limb. maple
in his mouth, every exposed
ligament sizzled
& suddenly it came:



the smell of a girl on fire.



i told him the bleeding was indicative.
the gasoline mine.

he touched
my womb
& left me to
splinter trees
red pantied &

alone.