Their arms reaching over my body, like a bridge
or tightrope over some electric pool. Finger-diving
into each other’s backs. I am still
fully dressed, and maybe I’m a prude,
or maybe I thought
some eager mouth would find me.
that’s what I get for thinking of myself half-full,
or even water at all, or even cold. Y’know
you’re not supposed to
be cold. Not with this many people
in a bed, anyway. When they finally notice me
kissing their shoulders,
like a dog eating
off the dinner table debris, they both kiss me.
A thousand swelling hairs on my tongue.
They taste the same, and I know
I’m probably watering down the flavor,
I’m probably diffusing the boil, and the boy
that brought me here says he wants to expose me
to great things. He opens my throat,
this disposable gutter, and I know
or full or which one he wants me to be, but I hope
it’s the right one, and I don’t know who’s holding my face
to the mattress, the one that wanted to salt my spine,
or the one that wanted to tag along
and sing some wicked lullaby,
but I hope it’s the right one.
It’s a miracle that I haven’t spilled over, really is
some kind of blessing that this accordion torso
has yet to break open with its hideous yawn,
and I should consider myself lucky enough to feel
a current pass through me
even if it settles in someone else.
There is honor in being a message
in a bottle, or just the bottle,
jagged. Don’t kiss the messenger, don’t fuck
the middleman, or do, and watch the sweat
bead, and then disappear.