"Devour" - Draft 1

One crumpled-up pack of Marlboro reds,
two cats curled at the base of the bed,
they crack their bones and stretch
in the wrinkle of morning.

He stirs her coffee with a silver spoon.

It is a broad back,
that sits at the edge of the bed
examining rough-skinned feet
that have never been pumiced.

They are wide-palmed hands
that still shake at the thought
of a drink, and lift the weight
without need, or question.

In the pale grey of early day
they are quiet together, she and him,
and the birds that have already had
the pleasure of a morning worm.

She, studying his scars,
biting the lip of the lover,
gaurding against the ghost
of his hungry mother...

sees the boy in the man,
and the man in the boy,
holds them both tight

to her chest
and says,
"drink the sweet milk...
go on, devour."

03/25/09