The Age of Bent Blood in the Throat

When the ithic gods wagered words, we had an enigmatic release.
I carried the flower of her voice in my thorax like bent iron.

The age of short skirts. Liniment seed on all that bleeds.
It was a tireless trace of gunpowder on my finger, or some stain just as arc.

I sat with her for coffee and almost slow hair.
We talked of a disturbing black gill at the bottom of the world pumping its
        enormous pain.

It is more comfort to nuzzle a secured suspicion.
It is calculated saliva in the boats of dark gravy.

Sure, she spoke of underarm stubble that required shaving.
She told me that her name, backwards, spelled only your mouth.

All right. I know I can say something born.
The terrible cities extended coast to coast and spoke our mutual weakness like
        safe hands almost holding—below the table—everything we might regret.

Copyright © 2007 George Kalamaras All rights reserved
from Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission