Metal Scrapes Porcelain

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My mouth is pregnant with sound,

but my lips

form only silent shapes;

and you taunt me over a plate of

post-fuck

scrambled eggs.

You used to love my scrambled eggs,

but now you’re not even eating;

you push the food around with a fork

while I

swirl a glass of pink zinfandel,

and contemplate killing you.

Metal scrapes porcelain…

the moon is no longer ours;

she’s retreated

deep within a grey white veil—

an ever passing shroud.

Metal scrapes porcelain…

never again will we make love

‘neath the pallid watch.

Never again

will you hear the shrill of my heart.

Metal scrapes porcelain…

and my mouth is pregnant with sound,

dead under the noise of a fuckin’ fork

pushing eggs to the center of a dinner plate.

I take the fork from your flimsy fingers

and wonder

what your blue eyes would taste like

post-fuck.

Metal scrapes…