Sweetheart, that afternoon I lay on my back in a black bra and nothing else when you kneeled at my knees and pulled my legs apart, said, “Hmmm,” to my blue-black cunt that opened like a carnivorous flower. (Today my lips are fissured, purple wine in their cracks.) Musicians barely appeared on the roads anymore and when they did I wanted to tell them, “Don’t leave, please.” “Told you so,” you told me.Īcross the wine stain, a Rajasthani man in khaki pants and a tucked-out shirt played ravanhatha that sounded like weeping. The station smelled dense-your mouth at the end of a night of partying, Sweetheart, when you wanted to have sex and I turned to you, eyes wide and desperate, said, “Kiss me first,” but we couldn’t because alcohol had dried our mouths. someone had emptied a bottle of red wine at the exit of the bus station, the stain like the line of hairs between my navel and cunt. Kenyon Review Award for Literary Achievement.Developmental Editing Fellowship for Emerging Writers.The Patricia Grodd Poetry Prize for Young Writers.
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