Hickies

I think about the girl at the 7/11—

mostly about the hickies on her blue veined neck;

those greedy plumb leeches—

those wriggled beasts that have been smacked into her skin,

they are disturbingly pleasant things I think.

She hands me my change and I become

uncomfortable from my imagination.

Once a time ago upon my flesh two women drew

continents that sprawled like ink spills,

their lips and teeth scribed

messages of ownership back and forth.

Only the blood thirsty invent maps.

A world of gluttons maps its own illusions.

But you and I never used lust from tongue

and teeth to lip-mark our belonging

with bruised flesh dry of saliva

and purple to a public eye,

accidents once or twice, I recall.

We feasted every night though—

mapped each corner of who we were,

and are, and should be

until we knew we were no more

and should be no longer.

And now through the crowded faces

of women I meet,

I walk with skin naked from your absence

wanting to claim itself yours.

Ç Myrlin Hepworth