The Little Cannibal
Smith Browne
There is blood in the milk
as you drink, and a small piece
of my flesh that you’ve sucked off
the nipple in your attempts at learning
to live by learning to take.
Your pale red mouth and wandering eyes
don’t know where you’ll focus next
as the blue-tinted milk seeps past
your lips and lines your cheeks
in streaks down into your neck
where it gets lost in the folds of olive-
skinned fat and is churned over and over
until there’s a rudimentary form of cheese.
And I stroke you, smile, tug back my tit and sigh,
Ooh, I could just eat you up like pie!
And you sigh, tug back, and grin, as if to say,
What makes you think you're getting out of here alive?