Tylenol Face

Our shoes are circuses,
teetering and teething on our feet
gold and red. The lions and sheep
cluster in trios, quartets, and I hum,
slide my shoulders like the bow of a
viola. Oh, David, where is your
sling, stone slaying me between the eyes?
Your Tylenol face appalls me.

He stands at the edge of the shimmery crowd,
nervous like the edge of a wave, and in his hands,
he cradles a pomegranate. I wink a quick look
at his face, the Guatemalan dark skin, bee-sting hair,
cloudy eyes. David's eyes are cloudy, cloudy with
theology, cynicism awkwardly applied, archaeology.
Cygnet swans huddle scornfully behind him but
don't dare disturb.

The blankets and sheets are bride-white. I sleep with your face
dissolving in my mouth.