strictly pavlovian

we gather in the backyard, in a graveyard of glass where soft carrots poke

their withered tufts through the packed piles of thawing dirt and discarded

cigarette butts.  a collection they keep.  talk in circles around a deep dug hole about

who they've fucked and how bad they felt about it. may as well be picking lice from their

heads, these orphaned children with dicks like divining rods leading them to water. 

they bend and stick their mouths to the ground suck suck suck but all that comes

is mud.  mud and grime between teeth and gums. on this night the rain arrives finally finally

with thunder so loud it shakes the house shakes bones under skin.  they open their mouths to wash

the grime from their lips but the drops catch ash on the air leave dirty streaks down acne scarred 
cheeks and they are filthy still.  scatter like cockroaches, burrow down under rocks, and laugh.

with the motherless gone there’s only now me the woman you the man -

unfit caretakers both middle split and shameful in our own rights

there’s only now a room of smoke and warm whiskey in a stone cup passed

back and forth between us.  we look out to the backyard, to the graveyard

of glass, to the collections they keep, and between

sips and sighs promise somehow to be

different.