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.