Bernadette McComish
  His chipped tooth draws
  blood from my bottom lip
  after a kiss. We kiss more,

  keep close the secrets of animals
  we once were and want to be
  again. We don’t notice

  metal mingles with the taste of now,
  but it lingers in our memory
  like a dream blacklisted

  from consciousness, like the promise
  of a ring, or lavish hope for a little girl
  growing in my belly.

  Wishes are futile and stink
  like tinfoil balled
  and abandoned under the car seat.

  When did we forget how to be human?
  Was it the topless vodka haircut

  or the record player reminding us
  to tap into a world we made up
  in the kitchen.

  The sheets rip
  a glass breaks
  all that’s left are boxes,

  long red hairs stuck to the walls,
  and small paper wrappers.
  I steal some drawings, a little money,

  nothing you’d notice, and tell you
  to keep anything I forget.

Bernadette McComish earned an MFA from Sarah Lawrence, and an MA in Teaching English as a Second Language from Hunter. Her poems have appeared in The Cortland ReviewSunday Salon, Hakol, Hospital Drive, Slipstream, Storyscape, Rag Queen Periodical, Poetry Leaves, and she was a finalist for the New Millennium Writers 41st poetry prize. She teaches high school in Los Angeles, and performs with the Poetry Brothel, healing one John at a time with words and glitter. 

more by Bernadette McComish:
An Old Story