Her To Her To I

In my bedroom the three of us all high: her, her, and I: pass methamphetamine in circle, her to her to I, our lean mannequin forms pressed hand to leg to thigh, one on my left, one with a school yard eye. We three are, and have been since seventeen, friends without borders, like grass without green, throating for water from skiffs diver dry, strung out on wire like trout with tin-foil breasts and pupils bulging black as once-a-star. In my bedroom, the three of us undressed - took her, then her, now I - have logged too far on thirty six strips of backward spinning crests to hide our heal where love unpeeled is scar.