Metamorphosis

She has those tiny teeth
I like, and that beer
looks muddy enough

to please my palate.
I think of touching
her shoulder or

leaning in to catch
the slightest scent
she carries,

whether sweat or
perfumed skin,
whatever,

and then leaning in
for the laugh
at something I said

and then
dragging me home
and laying me there

among the storm of sheets
stained with last month’s blood
and whispering in my ear

i’ve come
i’ve come
i’ve come.