Volume 29, Number 2

If you leave the knife

on the table,
I'll let you bite
my lip until the blood
runs down my chin.
Stop looking up
when you throw me 
against the bricks.
Let me slide my hands
through gravel as you step
over my body.
I lock you up then wait
like a welt. 
When you get out
and in my backseat,
you’re as filthy as a bed
with your hands trembling
for a fix. Around my neck 
they still cravin' things. If I’m on top
I think about what living
people do. If I’m on bottom,
I can feel my mouth
almost ask you to build
me a free woman.

—Annmarie O’Connell