Weasel

So Weasel, it has come to this;
to your thighs like tall glasses of milk,
your biscuit hair,
eyes that are like any kind of deep water.
It has come to those coiled, snaking guts
we had when we were younger still – 
those balled-up sock guts of an afternoon 
stolen back from college.
It has come to the spastic, ticking urges
rising through skin at the simplest
repositioning of your weasel hips,
or the one in twenty-seven kisses
I might land about your mouth,
of the right temperature and diction.

Was I even hungry once for eating?
Were you ever not the end to all fasts?


first published in Smiths Knoll, © Jack Underwood 2015, used by permission of the author

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