Issue

Issue

We have to do it this way
he says putting his issue in my mouth,
he finger picks out stain pebbles
from the inside of my cheek.

We line them up on the coffee table,
whistle blow them dry
search the pantry for jam jars,
vinegar and blank copy labels

The identification parade takes hours;
that paranoia
he thought he saw breaking and entering
wearing a bobble hat,

the way his heart photographed in that kernel time
when she left him and he fucked everyone,
are all factored in.
We run our pen nibs thin.

In the morning, the sun makes sense.
Descending I see him,
like a child after a party, exhausted and jittering
lick lick licking off the labels.