Blood Test

 

This, the prick: blood-bead and the vacuum

suck of afternoons in the park, the way you

pressed your thigh against mine, the shifted

weight of legs, nudging, we are closer to the sky

now. This will tell me truth: tell me whether

I am lowering, bending to gravity's pull, tell you

whether thighs will spider, will risk longer skirts

and longer nights, whether you are more

than just a shot in the dark.

 

 

 

What I Won't Say

 

This is the way it looked, to me: torn pieces

of yourself, spread out like a picnic, and you were

telling me, whispering in my ear, telling secrets

you were never supposed to know, how the earth

has shattered and you with it. I will feed you

to seagulls and ranch hands, I will butter you,

serve you up with toast. I will press you into the folds

of my dictionary and smell what lingers

when I have forgotten, but I won't

tell you, I won't say it, won't tell you,

lay wide open.

 

molly sutton kiefer