Licking Knives - L.E. Leone

LICKING KNIVES


Don’t know why I do
it this way, just one of those
things one does, I guess,
a way. I stir
my pineapple juice
with the knife I sliced
it with, the pineapple. Then I lick
both sides, yes, tongue my tongue
up the cold, foamy steel, savoring
sweet and sexy. Once a guy wanted
me to give it back, what I’d
sucked from him. He guided me
my mouth to his, and parted my lips
with his little finger.

Then I lay back on my back
in the dark, eyes open,
and waited. He had a word
for this . . . I forget. Another one
wanted to tie me up and
I let him, even though, technically,
there was a shotgun
leaning against the wall
in his bedroom. The woman I ate
for hours until she shook
to life, for the first time ever (she said)
in her thirties. I love this shit,
the taste, even, of blood,
and imagine I’d be the sole
survivor of my airplane crash.

That woman, her husband
had a gun too, you know, and used to hold it
to her head: “Don’t ever leave me.”
Probably I shouldn’t have gotten
involved, but those
were the days. Now
I just lick knives. Thank you.

L.E. Leone
© 2010