For my birthday, I ask him to
fuck me with his fists and tongue.
He complies, briefly
giving me over to God. At least
that’s how it seems.

Sleeping, his embalmed hands twine
my glutted body.
Funk drifts,
rousing me with detailed
flashes of the night.

For breakfast, we steal chekos from Kohinoor
and eat them in the alley,
skin and all.
It is June, 1998, &
I am thirty.