By Nicole Kuwik
These past few
days have been
made of secondhand teeth and
three-year-old, full-flavored cigarettes
“they’re harder to find,”
he says to me,
“so I smoke less of them.”
We discuss the black spots
in my vitamins
and the drugs
in his tracking number, and
while planting forget-me-nots
in pinedirt
at midnight,
he says something
along the lines of
kissing my forehead
I chase strays
around the dumpster before
lacing his rough fingers
again
well, I’ve discovered
the expiration date on the
bottom of the bottle, it’s
six
of oh, nine.
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