You say you're done crucifying your flesh. Fall like a shewolf on the chocolate cake: roll your eyes, moan, suck frosting from your fingers. This wine goes right through me! Which way is the women's? I laugh as if this is not transparent, as if you are not anxious to vomit before we return to our room. You're gone awhile. The busboy clears the table.
Once, years ago, you climbed a swaying fire escape I was afraid of, danced there alone. You showed me new ink, ragged stitches down your shoulder blades: I've fallen so far—will you catch me? And how the yellow moon shone through the splayed bones of your hand.
Mark Reep is an artist and writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in American Art Collector, A-Minor, Blue Fifth Review, Prick of the Spindle, Word Riot’s 10th Anniversary Anthology and many other fine places. He is the former editor of Ramshackle Review, and is represented by West End Gallery, Corning, New York; and Jardine Gallery, Perth, Scotland. Visit his website (http://markreep.net) and blog (http://markreep.blogspot.com).
Wow. Beautiful poem, Mark.
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