after ASMRTheChew
I’ll eat my supplicants, wearing my carpet green
suit and red lipstick the mothers warned me about.
I do it for the sting of vinegar beneath
my loose crown, for the way it changes
the shape of my mouth. I could be silently
singing hosannas or having orgasms, followed
by the sound of taut skin breaking between
teeth. On the days my joints don’t ache, I lift
the gallon from the bottom of the fridge.
The candy lady is dead, so I do the honors:
fish for the big one, fingers puckering
in the chilled brine, the small cut
on my knuckle rinsed alive again with want.
I choose one with the deep color
on one side, lighter everywhere else. Carve a cross
in the pale butt, stick a Jolly Rancher inside.
I still know how to eat around it, pushing
its winnowing jewel deeper with my tongue.
Back in the day, I’d rub two quarters in my pocket
and sidle down the block, palate already
itching for that first note of garlic
like a money shot. I’m so glad my mama
don’t pay for nothing these days, and nobody
is around to tell me I’m smacking too loud.
That no one can see the small gap between
my incisor and canine, where the best
morsels get stuck, and I have to suck them free.
The women in my family raise a hand
to cover that space when they laugh, but I live
for what stings without bitterness, for what
is still edible after months and months
discounted on a shelf. For what salt
serves as sacrament. For false fruit.
For whatever sates me into a raw-mouthed
sleep. For whatever in you is ready to relish
what’s left in me—unjarred, unlicked. Still sweet.
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