do you recall how long your hair was?
hacked short enough to burn (your shoulders), and long
enough to slither
(like licorice) into the corners of your

I bit your hips
and taste gin and
sugar-rock bones stretching
helplessly o'er unctuous skin

caramelized freckles spread
over your taffeta collar bones, your throat
magnificent in its
municipal, non-secular function.

every breathe
was a prayer,
every lie
was a chance

if you endeavored now---
to tell the truth, now, after
so much leather and
svelted anachronisms,
I can say with
celeric dignity that I
will no longer wish to hear it.