Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

I sleep with a picture of you under my tongue
running through my flesh like a fire through
cornfields—When everything I touch
curls in on itself, contorting to fill
water’s physique—as in ripped paper, gels
bubbling—or you could find no more
words for it, that day your ears bled
laughed and turned back to her reading

If only that had been the end of it–
noting these submerged systems, clock’d
lusters soaked with chlorine, enfeebling
the coals your picture becomes of me wasted
pounding out hot tortilla on the rocks–
If he wanted to do this he shouldn’t have sent
that letter his own father a companionship order

She gnaws liquid images, queues a full moon
just atop your ashy mouth

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