This life, babycakes, is raspberry skies
with intermittent vitamin C and moon pies
a lunchbox compromise
somewhere between sugarless gum and the coveted candy bar.
Gin makes me cry.
I drink it for the olives, ask for extras
suck the stuffing out before biting in, and imagine
an eyeball popping out of its socket, sliding on my tongue.
My advice--watch the journey
down the twists and turns of gullet.
Step high in tall grass and watch for crickets.
Trap the large ones in a box.
Slide a hook through the middle, cast and watch the bobber
because, honeychile, I know you like your mama:
head under the bed, dreaming it's an oven
strappy black fuck-me pumps tossed in the dust
torn fish-net stockings shoved in one toe.
You're toast unless you sharpen those edges
unless you cut something besides your thin wrists.