I tell Josey when she dies I am going to eat her face
before I call the cops. They’ll be on their way
to pick up her dead body and I won’t be able to stop, finally able
to bite adorable chunks of her perfect cheeks, gnaw on the regal
cleft of that much beloved chin. I am always already hot
to chew on Josey somehow: the side of her hand, the part
you press to frosted or fogged-up glass to make a little
baby’s foot; one rough knuckle plucked up in the middle
of the day at a red light, her cool dry hand on the stick.
I tell her the EMTs for the dead, the morgue guys, will walk
in on me, her blood by now darkening and crusting
all over my mouth, me looking up like dag, busted,
mouth agape and also full of one last bite of her unchewed body.
But it’ll be so sad; you won’t be there to think it’s funny,
I say. That would be the drag, adds Josey, nodding, complacent.
That would be the serious downer of that situation.
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