Pluck

If you should make
a bitter wine from my yard-
tear pieces of fuzzy green neck.

Pluck only the hair husk
and gather sun-cracked lace leaf

because
cat piss has drowned
the mint.

Our feet
are swollen
like puff pastries
but at least the yarrow
pulp steeping in rum
beneath piles of bikinis
will coo them quiet tonight.

As 5pm
streaks molten rust
across your nape,
you suck Halls lozenges
for aromatherapy.

As if sweat-crushed
tomato vine
wasn’t a tincture
you’d inhale from your
own damp fingers.

As if wafts of
earthen worm spit
and freshly
baptized rosemary
make your nose bleed for
drugstore eucalyptus.

I lap melted popsicle juice
from palms that dug
demon root until blistered
and soggy
and watch you perform
what your sister
taught you
in the overgrown
weeds
of your old
schoolyard:

1. to pop
the babies’ heads
off
and then 2. drink
their sour milk
until 3. dry heaving
makes you feel like
a dog inhaling
old marrow.

Tonight
when I bury my
tongue in your mouth
your teeth will still
be buzzing.