Baby’s boyfriend is looking for somebody to gift him a piece of themselves
the shape of a mouth because Baby took a bite from his body
and won’t spit it up. He’s looking for a girl
who’ll spread her legs for him to crawl inside
so he can be reborn.
Baby’s baited the telephone line, reeling him from his Little Korea lover.
When Baby hangs up we re enact the renaissance, my fingers form
brown skin out of white marble while he licks frescos into my lips.
He calls me baby, begs forgiveness, but she heard
her name echo in another girl’s jaw.
Baby’s kissing bruises into her boyfriend’s neck, branding him black-and-blue.
My tongue touched nothing but his too big mouth, but Baby
kisses the smallest parts of him, stains them wine,
gets pie-eyed from lapping the drink she’s poured
into the cup of his collarbones.
Baby cuts him open with a carving knife, finds me leached to his belly,
calls me Bitch and takes a bite. Baby’s got our missing pieces
in her teeth like scraps of meat. Now I’m begging for a gift
the shape of a mouth, because Baby and her boyfriend
bit until my body became leftovers.
Elizabeth Lemieux comes from small town in Maine where churches outnumber traffic lights. Her work has appeared in The Best Teen Writing of 2015, Maine Magazine, as well as in her poetry chapbook, The Presumpscot Baptism of a Jewish Girl.