Rusty Barnes 

The Ex-Boyfriend Checks In on Saturday Night by Cell Phone

Remind me never to call you
again after you get home late,
for the familiar fear of the deadbolt noise,
the shifty creak of your linoleum floor,
the way you throw your jacket over
the sofa and slide from your shoes
like a tap dancer long and slow,
the way you rattle the bowl

with beer-piss knowing that I’ll crawl
between your ankles anyway,
part your legs and lips like the leaves
of an old familiar book whose margins
I’ve creased with my fingers and closed
with the certain knowledge I’d open it soon
and feel my way through the details
by heart. It’s not genteel; it’s what I know.
Baby, I’d eat your words raw. Continue reading