shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

M. Dae

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From a Matress on the Floor of Stuytown 13F

To fresh cotton washing machine skin,
red dirt road streaking down your face –
I can't come back the way I want to.
I'd be a question, always
a smirk you thought you'd outgrown.
It's just birthday sex a few months early
I told you that the last time.
You smelled like cinnamon
when you pressed me too far back
a tangled mess arched against soft refrigerator steel,
slow scream as the coffee machine switched on.
You searched my body for weaknesses
by your bottom dresser drawer.
The gold paint flaked off onto my cheek & you laughed 
big belly back of the throat – locked into our blues
as I mapped out my morning after