where cannonballs bounce off angels' breasts
and explode on your tongue.
So take a moment
and lick between my shoulderblades.
Tell me,
is the taste close enough to gunpowder
to let you
drive me home?
Or maybe I taste like dust
caught between treads
as a family rolls off
to somewhere between anonymity
and contentment.
They know what they're leaving behind,
I hope, because I don't.
I just can't be left alone
in an empty lot.
"You're almost there, darling,"
you say, your foot twitching
against the accelerator.
You continue, "You taste
of marble and saltpeter.
You worry me sometimes,
always constructing and deconstructing
like that.
Don't you ever want to know who you are?"
My finger traces the outline of the airbag.
"I think the family has found their home.
It's a little suburb tucked under my collarbone."
You laugh and kiss my cheek,
letting a cannonball slip between your lips
and down to the base of my neck.
"You'll figure it out someday, dear."
Spoiler! :
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