I thumbed your eye sockets
as though your lashes and lids
and eyes had fallen out, as if I
were sponging dough on the dining
room table.
I could hear your brain matter moving
like goulashes sinking into mud.
As I recall it was a rainy day,
though with my thumbs in your eyes
all you probably recall is the pitter
of the raindrops on the roof.
My thumbs were in your eyes,
and my palms were pressed
into your cheeks, red with fluster
and embarrassment.
I could feel the blood breathing
under your skin, the motion
of a snake sliding through your arteries.
You clawed my arms and forked
your tongue. Thunder rattled
the storm windows.
I pulled away and vomited
in the corner.
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