Bite My Shoulder
Dominique Salas   


There are days
in which I delegate myself
to cry: my brother will die
one day before I, leaving me
to fall like a planet through galaxies for life;
or I will be torn from him
as cleanly as gum in his hair;
a girl will say Daddy
has peed on her, but it was sticky;
a little boy will steal her jacket,
having sliced up his arm
for want of quiet;
the sun a dying face. In this hospital

a woman is wheeled in, mouth agape.
She is screaming, FINALLY, jaw stuck out
almost as far as her belly. And she bites
her partner’s shoulder, screaming:
I fucking love you.

Tendrils of their chandelier sweat
somersault to the ground like loose
sugar only to be
replaced by more.