you have grown more into your face since
the last time i saw it. me, bruised,
neither boisterous or sincere, sipping
a cosmopolitan and here you say,
"when i was confirmed, they asked for my name.
i'd decided on mary margaret. i opened my lips to speak
and out came mary magdalene instead.
i should've known."
i give you starfish for your hair
and mollusk shells for your breasts.
i give my wishes to you because
you know what to do with them.
you take nude photos of yourself,
sent in digital envelopes. scandalous, you say.
i can think of more scandalous things
but my tongue has a brain throbbing away inside.
if i bite it, will it burst?
the day after, we sip your parents' pinot noir
in front of the fireplace. later, you shove me
with both hands out into the cold.
men call me a witch.
but they never met you.
i am the safety valve on your steam locomotive
the moon dredged in your hair.