It is but one degree below sixty
eight fahrenheit and my fingers
my skin flakes like baklava.
My fingertip cheeks
blush and break and breathe in
the bleak gusts of sour wind.
They sing like a boiling teapot but
they do not sing as pretty as the whistle
harmonizer my nana bought for ten cents
because her only sober daughter told her to.
my fingertips are still purple. They decrescendo
to a steady hum that makes my ears ring but
at least my ears are not baklava. My ears are cherry
tomatoes, too ripe from a cartilage piercing
I got via Claire’s gun even though
everyone says not to.
My ears are not baklava, they are cherry
tomatoes but you don’t like tomatoes. You love my ears
anyway. You’ve never tasted baklava but you love
my fingers anyway. I run them under hot water
to get rid of the purple which, like the Claire’s piercing gun
I know isn’t good but I do it anyway because I love purple
but not that much. Hot water doesn’t get rid of baklava
but that’s okay because I love baklava. I love
tomatoes. My ears and my fingertips
and my nose all look like tomatoes but you
do not say “I don’t like tomatoes.” Instead
you kiss me and now my cheeks too
are tomatoes, and you don’t mind. Your fingers
are dry wine.
they move slowly and stick
to my lips and my lips
are thinly sliced beets marinating
in Tupperware from last
by your wine.