he carved my lips

with a rusted spoon

one that Gulliver might use.

the rust a crusty blood stain on the stainless steel.

the spoon dull from overuse, the Lilliputians moving it

           in and out of the mouth

as I lay bound.

he scooped out my flesh

with a forefinger and middle,

probed at the corners

with fatted W tips,

flaying me open like a pregnant catfish,

exposing me

to the metronome click

a beat of rightness.

there is one way to kiss

to satisfy the lust of correctness.

smoke belches from your lips – a Mount Saint Helen’s –

nose,

ears,

eyes,

substituting words.