Milk and Honey

I wait for you to come home. 
When your keys tinker at the front door

there’s a fat cherry pursed between my lips, 
back molars alert in anticipation of the crunch.

Please ignore the broken egg shells
cracked on the floorboards, 

the fact that I’m awake at midnight cracking my cellophane fingers,

waiting for the hazard lights of your car
to flash red down the driveway. 

Mama tells me, “You’re too good for him, baby”
says you bore her like late night television, 

that you remind her of grey suits 
and photocopy machines. 

Time and time again I dismiss her, 
I kiss my fingers raw and press them 

against the clear glass. 

Come back.
Don’t go, I need your mouth like

I need honey, raw and thick 
and spilling