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I Don't Know Why I Bother With You


by P.R. Mercado


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.”
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