For Malvin

The air feels sterile
this I can tell;
the autoclave machine, the alcohol swaps,
latex gloves dusting residue in the web of your fingers,
assaulting the olfactory senses with leftover rubber bitterness

I could stray away
Or I could stay.

‘You can come on in now,’ you said.

I climbed onto your bed for nails;
as I breathed in your palatial lies of my bare breasts on your gloved
hands,

your eyes now iced into a gaze of intense attention
as I lay floored on your surgical divan
with nothing to do but
breath in a silent tattoo parlor business eloquence

The fluorescent lights on your ceiling
are beginning to resemble nebula on a
blinding carousel to me

‘Don’t move. I'm coming,’ you said

It’s hard to think of ravaged wedding dresses
and my languid lethargy of depression,
when you stand your hardy palm atop my nipples
a few centimeters
away above my ragged heart
banging against,
almost out of my ribcage

I wanted to laugh at the sexual innuendo of your instruction,
nearly forgetting about a broken relationship
with an equally broken man
when you announced you were done

You pitched your needle for your biohazard bin
and stood back in satisfaction

You told me it's pellucid beauty,
but it’s bod-mod lexica I’d never understand
because
I was already half worried
of what you’d think of my faux stomach operation
and stripes of blood I wear proudly similar to a general’s.

‘What happened?’ you asked.

I put my shirt back on and you might have struggled to put
sight else where.

You have beautiful hair,
pictures on your skin,
and earlobes stretched to the size of perfection with empty globes

As I stood there
sucking this first memory I have of you through my teeth like a fellatio,
I refused to speak

I paid you a hundred dollars and
went home