Might As Well Been Wearing
Underwear On My Head

Sarah Fabbricatore

          Jim Beam stole my saliva over night
          as I slept naked, in the moons view.
          For seven hours straight
          I choked his neck, wrapped my lips
          around his head,
          drained his bare glass body.

          My head was a sponge
          that got hard by morning.
          I rolled out of the darkness of his pillow
          eyelids, not eyelids - weights with mascara
          lifted. I saw him
          sitting at the end of the bed
          concentrating
          on light that settled in dots,
          twinkling in the open weave,
          of a tapestry, across the window.
          Tan with purple flowers and yellow pupils.

          I watched him change focus-
          And I did -
          to the bed sheets
          where flowers floated
          where we had floated
          in and out of each other
          and of sleep
          for three days

          fumbling, grabbing hold
          pulling in and ripping off
          flannel shirt, blue dotted panties,
          orange socks on the floor.
          Frustrated moments, a spasmodic chorus
          of "oh ma... oh jeez... oh ga..." and then -
          Swan dancing, backs curving
          into tea pot spouts
          a moment held just
          for the undercurve of my breast
          to lift above his tongue.
          I squealed out a yawn,
          for the attention I guess,
          and that's when he turned.
          Scrutinized my face,
          made me examine too,
          my puckered bottom lip
          squinting eyes
          the limp hair behind my ears
          creases on my cheek.

          What am I on Monday morning?
          The tease in a riddle?
          That you're so confused by your nakedness.
          When all I did
          was fly down from a
          rooftop like wild poetry.

          I'm confused now, turning in,
          my deprived tongue, sticking
          to the wrinkled roof.

          You put a hefty
          load of salt on my back,
          watch me shrivel.
          I am not Super-Fucking-Woman.
          You are pleased and hard
          full of yourself
          and scared that you've done
          so much.
          You've done so much.
          When I needed so much -
          and I could have gone further
          sucked watermelon juice
          dropped seeds in your mouth.

          You said
          I'll miss you
          as I fumbled with the knob
          saw the dark hallway
          the five flights down.
          You stood there and
          watched as I walked,
          placed my hand
          on the damp banister.

          The support feeling like failure:
          a fat drunk on ludes.

          The door didn't shut
          what did you see?
          My ass, sagging
          in three day old jeans.

          Three pigeons shivered in the shaft.
          On the next landing I swallowed the jelly
          lounging on my tongue.
          The bronze metal curve clicked onto place.
          And the three pigeons thrust all six legs at once.
          Like Tupperware, when released in a sink full of water,
          they emerged and floated over rooftops like poetry.

          I stepped outside
          onto the avenue.
          Might as well have been wearing
          underwear on my head.