You amble into class and settle down,
squeezing these 30-gallon trash bags
into the seats. Over the crackle
of plastic, I say write
and you go to it, opening your bags
and shaking out as much industrial grade
“love” and “pain” as possible
in fifteen minutes. Just once,
I want you to show me the rush
of love. Snuff it up your nose
and spit out the Sunday night
when you were fifteen and Emily Baker
bit your earlobe, leaving teeth marks
for a week. You told your mother
your dog, Chihuahua, did it. (Chihuahua,
that was the dog’s name,
even though he was a pit bull —
tell me that, too). Your mother knew you were lying,
but did you care? No. That tiny chip
in Emily’s left central incisor, secret nick
no one would notice except by touch, that ragged
sexiness was better than matching
Speidel I.D. bracelets. Tell me
everything. So you don’t know
alliteration. Don’t you love the sound
of “copper creel” ? Or “Zaire and Zimbabwe”? Don’t strand me
in a weatherless city; tell me the tropical zip code
of your affection.
Some Sunday night,
Emily will begin nibbling
again. That trash bag,
still in your lap, will open up,
gulp you both. Let me feel
her ridged teeth goosebumping
your neck. Let me hear
how you conjured a thousand lies
for your mother
as Emily’s raspberry tongue slipped
out of your ear and lapped on down.