I saw a stream of silver

leave your mouth, he said,


teasing the wisp of mercury,

a lizard’s tail, out of me.


When Hermes hung retrograde,

we wandered aisles carrying


mandrake, nightshade, canned

half moon hearts of palm.


It was the eve of another news

anchor’s son’s fentanyl death,


climbing a peak that doesn’t exist.

We wanted to numb ourselves


for the fun of it, little dogs

gnawing at scraps of meat.


Was that when you entered me?

Turning away invites you in,


your hand between my thighs,

feeling for an opening.