Love will not feed you

I wear a halter dress and the
mosquitoes get their due in blood.
You wear your ripe, unbroken face
tucked and stern and cool in heat.
Twenty inch moths stuck to the door,
everything webbed and damp after the
five o’clock storm.
This has been the summer of russet
liquid drank from the decanter and
the tempestuous dance of corn in hot grease.
A summer made with blended fruits and Italian dinners
of inflated bread sitting still in garlic paste.
I ask you to cut my meat and
make the dead thing deader.
Put the gristle in my mouth and the
peppered smoke in my nose.
Lay that crisp napkin over my lacquered face and
sop up all the shit.
Not much to say now except grace
God make him good for me
You take exacting bites,
watching your own mouth in the shine of the serration.

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