Too Far Up the Canal

I had said too much about what I do and what I write I spilled over into conversational victuals of who I am and what I like I was too drunk and tired to sleep and so I stayed the night

and in the morning he pressed his head between my legs felt my shiver and though I said I was tired he couldn’t hear the no in my plea and plowed through

a stab struck in texas mud half dry after a cough of rain and I bit my inner cheek to stave off the searing thrust and I lied to him and sighed for his pleasure and my pain as he rose and crested within me leaving a spit trail semblance of shame

and after I simply drank the bleak coffee he offered pretended I was unbothered by his kiss though I assured him I had to leave threw on the white linen sundress of the night before crumpled lolita little bow panties shed and snagged on the ruptured floor,

re-girdled the un-cracked leather belt around my waist - I am waste -ed in the gaunt hook & guise of a hangover he said he expected that last touch was goodbye and I lifted my paper mask up to my eyes and crossed my legs on the metro home.

fiona mcmurrey