BACK
SHARPNESS (FRAGMENTS)
jim warner
The fact of the matter is I am clueless
too. No, not clueless—indifferent.
I dated a girl who drew blood with her nails
and the fever of her touch outlasted
the sensation of scratch. Honestly,
I got nothing out of it, but she
got something from it and sometimes
isn't that why
we're with who we're with?
It's easier to make someone else happy
than to go
to bed alone.
---
She wore a rosary but wasn't Catholic.
The red shadow of her fingertips echoed
across my neck. She would close her
eyes and rake her lips—
Her nails, my wrist, a crimson push, almost
bruising something sacred and secret
underneath the skin. I wore her mark.
---
Our bathroom:
locked for twenty minutes
She would wait until I left the house
unless upset or drunk. I
watched wine pool from profile of the
door frame. She arched her back
and told me about the release.
I was "the empty taste."
She needed the bottle
a bottle
this bottle.
She cracked the cork between her thighs
and heat swelled
to mingle with broken glass.
---
I can't stand needles
and my voice, lately
is too tired to cut through the fabric of our
tension. Instead I sleep on my
couch, counting the fractures light makes
in the cracked window that bloodies my liver.
(c) 2008 by James Warner