by Mia Poirier
You gave me a hickey in 2007 and it has never gone away.
It’s a deep red void on my neck things keep falling in;
last week my neighbour threw a beer bottle at me
and the hickey swallowed it, jagged ends and all.
You won’t let the hickey fade. You renew it in public washrooms,
in the backseats of taxis, in damp movie theaters,
clamping down on me like a teething puppy,
or a teenage Twilight fan that’s taking it too far.
The hickey doesn’t hurt. “It likes you,” you tell me,
as if it’s your kid and you’re a proud mommy.
It won’t grow and mutate like in horror stories
but it itches and my fingers can’t go near.
Yesterday, my favorite earring dropped into my neck,
my head tilted too far to the right and there it went.
I wonder when it will eat your own lips,
sucking up the mouth that feeds it.