by kyle hemmings
I placed K-Y Jelly
in her forgotten country
she said it’s been so long
the last time anyone traveled there
was when Marco Polo looked for spices.
She had a double chin
and a little girl’s laugh
that me think of jumping jacks
and how I used to get
ripped off by rich kids.
We had sex on the shag carpet
until 4:30 a.m. and she talked
about an old lover,
sandy-haired and beefcake trim
perfect as an olive.
He left her to become a sponge diver
off the Greek Islands.
After him, she said, she fell overboard
and gouged on octopus and oyster impersonators
until she developed an allergy
to masked strangers at the ocean floor.
Later, we went to I-Hop
and I ordered whole wheat pancakes
with bacon and eggs sunny side.
I meticulously slid some butter
through each layer in the stack.
“Just coffee?” I asked.
She said even though she was hungry
she was sticking to a diet.
A stream of syrup ran down my chin
dripped on a potential erection.
She stared at me, head in hand,
eyes as if underwater
or detachable clouds.
“Do you think,” she asked,
“that if I ate you whole,
would it be enough
to go underground
to make a baby and a brother
three monthsâ€™ supply of bone and flour,
one good week of morning sickness.”