Last night you came so hard you told me you had a headache, so I opened my neck and you pulled out two Tylenol. You swallowed like it’s the only thing you’ve ever done. I closed my neck and we went again. After, we watched the bed flood. There were puddles everywhere, so many I couldn’t count. You were worried about drowning, so I removed my gallbladder and made us a life raft. Floating in the life raft, I promised to learn guitar so you’d find me attractive even in the dark. I told you, All my poems smell like birds falling from the sky. I told you, All of you smells like the moon, if the moon smelled like thighs and thighs smelled like a collect call to a stork. You told me, Never not be the supermoon I am too sleepy to look at.
C. J. Miles lives in Iowa with his wife. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Forklift, Ohio, Jet Fuel Review, Cease, Cows, Five 2 One Magazine, and Moonglasses Magazine. Follow him on Twitter at @cjmilespoet.