I think we had parties with cats before—
you were Mr. Gallant, and I Madame Sunshine—
we would drink tea laced with toilet spray, and
you would complain: “This tea
is laced with toilet spray!”
We would laugh.
You are the curling of toes,
and the scent of human skin.
The silver spheres of mercury
from a broken thermometer,
that split infinitely upon the touch.
You are Death in a racy dress—that is why you are so thin,
that is why your finger nails are always a shade of blue.
That is why women fall for you so easily, because
you are saccharine escape, and salvation.
“Mr. Gallant you are a wonderful kisser,” I said somewhere
behind that tree, and your briefs were to your knees
and we were bent over just so
the sun hits our eyes.
“Mr. Gallant,” I said. “Throw my body in the river.”