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all the pretty girls taste like
rotten rosemary and a hint of grapefruit.
my mother stuffs the turkey every year and by that,
i’m saying, my mother misses me like a torn kidney or open neck.

open your neck wider than you did last week,
fill your throat. wide eyes,
a gentle smile like a garden.
the image of our hands on water,
(any water)
the outline the liquid creates around our flat, steady fingers.

i was older than a swarm of bees
when they drained the ocean. our smiles,
they pulsed like twitching wings.

much, much later: a tear and a swarm of tears
down my cheeks right into the open of my neck.
clementine wedges, membrane-stripped, decorate the kitchen table
and my gentle smile like a garden quivers in the breeze.

imagine: our palms on the ocean’s surface,
reaching downward as it disappears,
not even curling our fingers into the body.