i suppose the bones are funny?
i suppose you remember the bones.
your cat’s little femurs made feast by a fox
and my molars sinking in my skull. small.
my neck was to the dentist’s lamp as you cried
at your kitchen table. that day, you gave me your vodka and later
kissed someone else.
our first date,
you showed me some bones
in a big old building.
bones big and old we
kissed like it was smashed bottle, sucking
quick the sticky wine, the glass
of your hips grinding into me, i gripped
where your pelvis peaked your skin,
hoofbeats on stone, a four-chambered echo
i could sing the bones,
kiss the stone, lapping the way a dog does
from an opening in the earth.
we were raw as we were dead,
at that genesis.
Seirce Mhac Conghail is a writer from Dublin, Ireland. Their work has been published in New Critique, Anser Journal, and Blue Marble Review, among others.