You said you wanted me
when you turned to face the lamppost.
The snowflakes caught your eyelashes
on the last languid Christmas.
Your fingertips braided my hair.
Your chilled lips smoothed my legs.
Your breath in hot clouds warmed my skin.
Maybe I love you a little.
I stand in line at the Drug Store.
There are fake Christmas trees.
I stand in line with closed eyes.
In the warm bathwater
I inhale the exhaust
of a cigarette smooshed
into my mother’s glass bowl.
A reflection of my stomach,
of what could be below it…
And then I hear the phone line go numb.
Lifted the window to devour the snowed
and bitten air on a wet,
soon to be whaled body.
Photo © Julie Anderson All Rights Reserved
