You cannot imagine how wasted I get
inside this woman’s thirsty, young body.
Let the high, overhanging clouds traffic
their troubles, I’ll abstain—lie low, stay dry—
keep in step with her long-casting shadow.
Coming behind, her prints fill with my own.
Like an open bar in the afternoon
light, she is raised and ready, listens
to everything and swallows slow hours.
(Rare mouths draw bitter truths). Last call I’m spent,
bottle-cap bent, elbows hinged, in her face.
When morning bites back, love spikes to bruising.
Prone to binge, I kneel where we spilled last night,
mulling its lace. Emptied. Downed again, straight.
Greg Bell lives in Kingston with his wife and two boys. He has a chapbook coming out with Cactus Press in November entitled, Better Locks and Daylight. Most recently his poems have appeared in Misunderstandings Magazine, Encore Literary Magazine, Rhythm Poetry Magazine, and have been featured on Eyewear.