spew

After I told my ex I was going to get a tattoo

He put his hand on my shoulder.

This is weird, he kept saying. We were

giving each other our stuff back—

his old red water bottle had turned up

in the back of my cupboard like

a dead uncle in a good dream.

A severed foot

bobbing in the ocean.

Or a sign from God. I was mature.

I was over it. I sent him a photo.

We stood talking in the doorway. I was guarding

the threshold. It was a new house;

I had to send him my address, but my dogs howled

and jumped with joyful recognition—the bastards.

He waited to be invited in as if bound

to vampire legislation.

I showed him a picture of the lamb

tattoo. He didn’t ask me why. He had won

by then, I wasn’t keeping anything for myself.

I had broken the salt barrier.

He just kept making that face, that grimace

that says: Remember I’ve been in your bed before?

I started to panic about these new things

not being mine anymore, and they lifted

off the floor under his gaze.

I suddenly remembered the train home

and the party I left early and the girls

he didn’t introduce me to. This is so weird

and he touched my knee. It was calming.

It’s weird, I confirmed. He meant

it was weird we had gone on talking

for so long without touching, and I meant

it’s weird I’m going to let you kiss me later