Lorrie Ness
FROM BEHIND
Tell me bottoms up baby.
Tell me you’re the only one
nursing from a tumbler full of breath.
I’ve learned to knock it back, to swallow
every drop of bourbon, crush a cherry
between my teeth. What’s it make me
if my shoulder blade tattoo is the only face you know?
If I wear a bridle of damp hair
but I’m still looking for a bit? Your thumb
presses into my ink — pulls the corner of her mouth
closer to my spine. She cannot turn
away, and I cannot decide
if she’s someone I take with me
or someone I’ve left behind.
I need you to slide your hands down,
and find a grip around her throat
to remind me that I still breathe. Slap your palm
across her lids so I remember how to see.
My eyes are at my back. My eyes
are at my knees.