Michael Albright


My friend Concordia says
we should try it out
to see how it feels.

I tell her
this is different—
she says it's not.
If you're cutting already,
what's a little deeper?

Once when she was mouthing
me on my nipple, I said harder,
so she bit down, and I gasped.
When I said stop, she clamped
down tight, and I started to cry.
She came up and kissed me—
I could taste my iron on her lips.

When we were kids
we went to a pond by the creek.
Petroleum leeched out and floated
greasy rainbows on top.
We'd toss out a barnburner,
watch orange and blue
prance like Jesus across the bog.

Concordia says it doesn't matter
if we do, or if we don't—the tub
of warm water will hasten the flow.
I say whatever. I was always taught
you don't ever leave someone
else to clean up your mess.

Michael Albright has published poems in various journals, including Tar River Poetry, A Narrow Fellow, Pembroke Magazine, Cider Press Review, Revolver, Moon City Review, Blast Furnace, Uppagus, and others. He lives on a windy hilltop near Greensburg, PA. with his wife Lori and an ever-changing array of children and other animals.

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