I’ve got two hands and an urge
to yank out your teeth,
my lover said, dropping the dress
she made from my shirt
to the floor, to see the landscape
a mouth of holes might look like.
Maybe jagged potholes on a rainslick
street, she said, climbing over
the bed. Maybe, she winked, a prairie
dog town in West Texas after a flood.
Copyright © 2017 Curtis Bauer. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Tin House, Winter 2017.