Kitchen Girl

.


simper
of the strobing halogen bulb,


warm teeth on my knuckles,
the blood between them:
all waiting
is violence.


I hear the engine
spear the morning’s blue ribs,
fumble


for an old record but the growl gutters away,
and here
I am
with a black
flat vinyl,


like holding two
ragged eggshells,
the yellow idea of the thing
dripping
floorward.


.