The whites of his eyes testified like rims of small
moons, so if you pricked him or suckled,
limewater would pool. New liver,
randy as an afterbirth, jacket steaming
as if just shorn of the beast who gave it up.
He was newly here, hot to Osterize his bags of merciless kale.
Would he see me differently now, now
he was sober, now I was almost
ten and smelled of pistachios
and skunk, small raw appliance
in the room of appliances.
What made me grab a glass, hold it out
for a thick pour of the grass green grassiness,
watch him swallow, grimace, grin,
turn to look me in the gray green eye.
I guessed this was what it took —
to conquer by pureeing everything you weren’t (wrists
still red from the worry), then take the whole mess inside
where the little walls that form against
the poison might thin again, unscarring.
I tipped back, queasy for the fill,
half wanting the swirl of his lettuces
to grit down into the drain of me.