by pj mendoza
A kiss by any other, or if I crossed my sevens
like sometimes when I tell you I won’t ever, never
meaning to do it again. But I do.
When the tread slid, or the door ajar cracked
the tea cup’s lip wider, I cut my tongue
beneath this roof which drums a clay heavy rain
on crimped tin. A vein lit up our sky
your gray stare, gone slate, sharp jaw
slipping its reef–that neck & the violet
my mouth bloomed
on your pulse. Sick flutter of the dog’s
seventh and last year, crossing
soft, a cold rattle, the grave kiss.
O sack of bones, you.
O how I wear–so thin–
over your chalk form.