wire hanging off roman ruins and bare feet on lime mortar
you are feeding me fentanyl, tongue
on the pad of index finger. (2 milligrams)
i knew what i was getting into &
this
is to be expected. pencil marks
on lined paper
calculated decisions. & axes buried
into the backs of tourists (we do not know their names)
(we will find out on the news) 2 milligrams.
& it’s selfish, really, but i do not mind
but the pianist below us is playing telemann until we shut him up
when you ask if i want to run away with you
like we are bonnie and clyde & i say no
you underestimate me. so bullets are dodged until i am standing
pressed up against you, my fingers a necklace &
savagery is the perfect word for this because you trained me perfect
& wasn’t it you who taught me to be a woman? & dammit,
baby,
you wear it well.
