Maybe people with a mole on the back of their neck
have the gift of charmed speech
at least irresistible mouths
You see them all the time
Singing from behind
Touched on the back of the throat
I loved one marked man
Green eyed, fat-lipped
gift of the gab
He could talk anyone into a tiny room
And talk that tiny room into a palace
And talk you into royalty
And talk you until you laughed so hard
Your cheeks burned and belly burst
a disemboweled queen
howling on the floor of a closet
He talked me out of all my remaining virginities,
Humiliation, sycamore tree, snow
Swordfish, asshole, jealous rage
The streets of Budapest, my forehead
When we, he, I fucked up
I rang my skull against a telephone booth in Cusco
against a subway wall in Paris
til blood trickled out
No he didn't do that; me
I let myself into the room.
He kept their pictures on the walls,
power tools, liquid eyeliner
didn't wash his sheets
and I let him fuck me in that bed
I gave him a dreamcatcher
A turquoise ring
A map of the Peters projection
a drunk ripped it down
He scotch taped it back together
He gave me a jeweled globe
A fish tank
A pair of hiking boots
I may have told him
too many times
how glad I am that he left me.
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