My friend once told the man she was fucking
that it wasn’t him, it was her. She was a cavern.
I think sometimes I wish
your tongue could sneak
like crocus, the base buried in indigo,
tip flushed purple on the tiniest of stems.
When I said more I meant more—when you said
more I think you meant all.
in my hands. An umbrella
against the impending always rain,
the record breaking
twenty five inches this winter,
the modern brutalism
of the weighted grey
I drive drunk to your house, my cavern filled
with elsewhere, to return your cock to you.
I will ask for it back.
And when I do, say this,
I did not
When I pull your hand to lip of my thigh,
say, This was no flood.
Amie Zimmerman lives in Portland, Oregon, with her teenage son and three cats. She cuts hair for wages and writes for love. Her essays and poetry have been published in NAILED, interrupture, REALITY BEACH, and voicemail poems, among others. She is the poetry editor at Drunk In A Midnight Choir.