Secure fingers against ribs.
Pressing, we’re fighting to
touch. Corset my ribs, love.
Urge them to cave in. Urge them to fold in
on themselves. Peel off our
layers of skin and use your fingers as new ribs.

The piano has been drinking,
not me.

Bandoneon breath. Whore violins.
Whiskey piano. We glide in close embrace
painting the floor with the heaviness of our steps.
Quick quick slow quick slow slow stop.
Match my breath. I’ll sink fingernails into your back,
We’re dancing poems. We’re the flowers of
Baudelaire, the beers of Bukowski, the oven of Plath.
We’re sinking into each other woven by Pugliese’s heartbreak, but

the piano has been drinking,
not me.

My closed eyes clench at the mixture
of my tobacco and your cologne.
My face against yours, catching sweat beads
that pool in my collarbones and between my breasts.
The song ends and I peel myself from you,
dripping with sweat and naked without my new ribs.

The piano has been drinking,
not me.

Fingers splayed across ribs.
Ribs ebbing and flowing with breath.
There’s no use in lying
when touch is
the form of communicating.
Corset my ribs, love.
Urge them to cave in.
Urge them to fold in on themselves.
Peel the layers of skin off
and use your fingers
as surrogate ribs.

Expand and contract;
wax and wane
our rib-fingers.
Corset yourself
within the dark hues
of the dark blues
of my blood.
Let it flood you.

And I,
I will sink my lips
in your collarbones
and marvel at the stillness
of bone
trembling above the
sea of marrow.

I have consumed you
and you will consume me
and from you
I, as a rib,
will yank myself from your chest
and make you yearn
for my

ribs.