a poem by Lena Judith Drake (1 of 2)

Yes yes

I taste good, I swear,
come taste me, pretty please,
a little watered down from the dusty tub,
a little powdered up from the baking soda pantyliners,
but the taste still rests
in the back of your throat like rotisserie chicken
or onion but better.
Like the first time I sucked on my fingers
in front of you,

under you, specifically,
on the apartment couch cover, bunched up and crinkled,

but better.

© by Lena Judith Drake

 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #5 ~ September 2009    next poem