Before writing this poem, I unscrewed a bottle of molasses and dipped each fingertip
in the sugared brown residue circling the cap’s inside.
He slipped July into my mouth the first time he kissed me, and I bit down, juiced the month
against my tongue like a tangerine slice and he only kissed me thrice after that. He doesn’t like
kissing. Fall is his favorite season.
Before writing this poem, I sprayed his cologne onto one of the plastic edges of my laptop.
Last night I was mad and at the door and hugged him and before I could leave, he snatched my
glasses and stuffed them in his pocket so I couldn’t drive. I told him this was manipulation. He
handed them back and said, Fine, then, go. I stayed.
Before writing this poem, I woke up in his arms in his bed in his house and cried with the softest
shudder of my ribs so as not to wake him.
His eyes opened with the sun, its glare grazing his eyebrows. I turned around to face him and
pinched the light between my fingertips, fed it to him for breakfast. When he opened his mouth
and murmured, I’m still hungry, the glow streamed off his tongue and lips and against mine. This
is the third kiss.
Before writing this poem, I squeezed charcoal toothpaste onto the toothbrush I keep in his
bathroom and scrubbed and did not rinse.
I settled a pan’s handle into my palm and scraped around the eggs with his spatula. He curved an
arm around my waist. The skin of my back bristled like a fearing cat’s fur and so I sank myself
deeper while he poured me a glass of water and I drank and spat the charcoal in the sink.
Before writing this poem, I fed him.
He washed the dishes.
Before writing this poem, I declined his offer to scrub the molasses from my fingertips, and he
went back to sleep.
