You know, Josephine, that knives lose their flavor

after midnight; I can't remember what they taste like:

metal and blood and soft sink of flesh, I suppose.

I want to lick you like a knife without serrated edges,

blade splitting my tongue open like a fork, like the meat

fork we use at barbecues.

I want to hold you in my fist until the blood runs

down my wrist, until my hand pulses like black heat,

until you push me flat on my face and we're all over

just sweat and dust and salt in the cracks of our lips.

We're killing him over and over but he just won't lay

down and die.

You say honey we need sugar love

but I want something bloody and moving in my mouth,

something beating my throat, wet stain

over my ribs, with the heart pounding under.

He prodded nighttime fever from my guts,

friction like sand on my gums, hurting and wanting

and all over veins throbbing. And I still remember

the way it went: my hand to his chest, shadows full

of shadow and violets, and his tongue in my throat,

taste buds swelling, all over swelling into the fullness

of night.