Fingers

(A small sweet poem about love/drugs)

Sleepily I ask you,
With a hand in front of my face,
Digits rigid in extension,
How many fingers; my dear…

You squint through lamp shade light,
Turn your head upon its side,
Let your palm rub your lids,
Grope in tender phosphorescence.

I lay across the cool bare wall,
The bed rickets as we play,
I hide my hands from you,
When you jump at them in the dark.

How many you say,
Head across my lap in resignation,
How many pink fingers, you ask,
In the shade of salmon light.

Enough, I say,
Blood still settled eerily in my ears,
Such that it gives and audible pulse,
Like valves sealing and popping free.

You have little pills,
On your chest and across the linen,
Baby blue vest buttons,
Tumbled from amber jars.

No quantity of ironic kisses,
Can repair the moments,
Spent kicking the air,
Because it was merely too hot and constrictive.

My eyes are red too,
You look fierce,
Like the mother in labor,
Like the virgin on the stake.

It’s a small climb out of bed,
Your limp arms over shoulder,
Your stomach churns like a turbine,
Borborygmus.

Walk with me,
I plead to deaf eyes,
Your steps clop indolently,
Hair being inhaled and wet.

A cluster of small sudden gasps,
The bitterness of you bile,
I hold your brown hair,
I rub the small of your convulsing back.

Two you say,
From a relieved mouth,
As though you are regaining spirit,
Almost immediate.

I shoot a glance,
It’s intended to look puzzled,
And you, motioning to your rasping throat,
Two… pink… fingers…