Tonight everyone forgot me:
my nightshade teeth was a story
brothers told themselves
at 24-hour diners, guilty
of loving.
I smoke indigo,
shaping a creature
who stares
at the back of my head
when I try to sleep.
Your constant underhiss,
eyes pressed into my ear
pressing
for a break, a single
fracture
as I clutch onto any warm body
for protection against
this cool vapor
staring at me
in the dark.
If I fed you
silence, we would both
be gluttons.
If I fed you
fire, only I would get burned.
2.
I read
(somewhere) to keep secrets
grind sage to your teeth.
It tastes like spirits
who knew my name.
3.
Next to a warm pile of human,
freshly fucked,
I want to think I’m touching
the face of God. It was
you, once.
Still you whisper the virtues
of nightshade
of fruitless trees,
of being a snake
in a keyless garden, forgotten
locks complete. I admire your floral
tongue. Liars
could make songs.
If they tasted you,
they would fear you.
T.m. Lawson worked at Magic Door IV Bookstore in Pomona, California,
and got paid in used books (and it was totally worth it.) They are currently
at UCSD’s MFA Program in Creative Writing, pursuing the Great American
Graphic Novel.