April Fools by Darcy Halstead 11

in the fickle kiss of my lids,
in the hairline fracture of
a sloppy second,
once the calculating alphabet
of heaving, gritty sounds
passed through you (their
trembling utterance
pouring so kettle hot
my heart could only blister,
sputter-dazed and swollen),
in the briefest of
pendulum journeys,
at the hastiest of paces,
the remembering cupboards
of my mind were
robbed -
quick theft
by your thief tongue (the very
laughable warm
organ that lapped
milk lies my way)
so now,
i can't recall
a single moment
of your tenderness.