the way we drink it

The first time we drank it

the incense cut our throats raw, diffused

up a concentration gradient of

sawdust & gaseous disease as she

said to me, tongue purple & jiggling:

“Under the dying sun our faces were

a shade of iron comparable to rain.”

She wrapped her little finger around

mine that were elongated by

the illusion that we engulfed

between lunch breaks & our upper lips.

She touched it with her tongue, gave birth to it

brooding beneath pale eyes & black

warring teeth. They disagreed often

but were loyal to her heart.

Edvard_Munch_-_Train_Smoke_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg

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