Just because I’m always pulling meat off your fingers doesn’t mean I’m easy
to befriend
a Rorschach of clouds descends on the grounds
hounds licking the soles of your feet
The girls woke from their nap to wrap
lips around the
glass rims of bottles
your brass doorknob collection glows
in the thundery afternoon
the butler is dragging his best
ecru pantyhose from the basket
brushing off the crumbs and dogs hair
in preparation for the meat-party
tonight we will swallow
gallons of things;
my ladies will ladle your ladies
with cupfuls of lard
salting each others hair and pulling
gravy drenched feathers out of
one another’s ears
The phonographe will keep on spinning
while the butler grins into the glass
fixed on the reflection of his
own grin
For now, the afternoon gapes like a
haggis, endlessly elastic
One thing you need to remember is this:
my teeth are just as thick as yours
and even as our hours slip away like
playing cards sopping with jam
I will keep my footing
and I fully intend to grasp this evening
by its thick, wet, lower lip;
I will grasp it with both fists and pull up
until I am directly
inside
Laura Hampton is a librarian in the University of Iowa’s Special Collections Department, where she works primarily with science fiction books, pulps, and fanzines. When she’s not jockeying books, you can find her writing poetry, reading horror stories, or drawing nasty pictures. Follow her on Twitter and/or Tumblr @laura_arcana.
