Your eyes might as well be fishhooks
dark and strategic, magnetic and full
knowing exactly which angles to pull--
it's not as painful as it looks.
Alcohol, he painted worthlessness on your face
stumbling skinny limbs and blue jean stains
eyelashes that dangled faithlessly like keychains
or curled "come here" fingers that swung in your sway.
I loved those milklimbs as long as I could
until I lost you to New York.
Maybe the apple itself tempts you north,
or something that tastes just as good?
Whose eyes are reeling you in so convincingly
that they would snap the line that you'd pierced into me?