Victoria Stitt: drinking tea on the corner of sixth and girard

forgiveness simmers under a forgotten
cast iron skillet
burning still traces of the last ten meals.

i haven’t eaten nor have i heard
the swallows’ chirps at this fall’s end.
i could conjure harsh no’s at my lover’s attempt

to peel me out of bed, half lucid, to see the trees again,
the vapor hovering above them, moving in slow constant breath.
these are not the mountain-meadow skies

i dream of: honey-lemon dripping down the wall,
tracing his neck, falling
onto his bare thighs, the floor sticky with its bitter heat.

                   the scene is erotic in recollection—
          my mouth watering, my palms slick.
but my tongue seeks salt in the corners. i mean,

the honey-lemon dripped hotly.
                                                  i mean, i spilled
          the honey-lemon on top of you. over your head.
          i mean to say
it was no accident.

before you walked away, i noticed 
          my mouth placed on yours,
having taking it — your lips were gone, your
throat silenced.

tell me, how do you
          pull a lover apart—
limb by limb? yes, yes.
nail bed by nail bed—            yes, but, better is

tooth by tooth.            
tongue by blooded tongue.

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