That Place Where Legs Meet Torso
Drew Kalbach

I wanted to pick a fight with my pickaxe.
You stripped my slow-skin and left it to dry on the patio.

I have easy fantasies of alligator women and dry orange faces
and thick sperm-covered car seats and little miniskirted

preschool girls playing tag with fleshlights.
We are the grey buildings, the gray buildings hanging empty heads,

the grey buildings full of I.V. tubes and bleeping doctors
and striped veins and bits of cotton daubs sewn together like cloth.

I have memories from future shipwrecks.
I was marooned on a busy interstate, my pants removed and eaten.

She was longhaired and dying. Her face was six colors
and cunting and broken. My babies are twice the size of her calves.

The thin metal lips with rings and hips and pants riding up her back and
more backs and more broken, and her hips, and her mouth

stretched across her body-bagged physique, the physical exertion
of her hips, and her broken, and her hips swallowed

into her stomach. My body is grassed and decayed. I am gross and weeping.
The culmination of which is hips and stomach acid in a plastic bag.

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