—KISSED MY HEAD AND SAID, “SEE YOU NEXT WEEK.”

 

 

Lamb

 

    I might not have understood it all when on our sixth date you said you were in a cult for four years that all you ate were figs kale and bruised papaya that the leader looked like Moses was called Moses and was never seen not wearing a billowy white robe unless he was fucking one of the girls and that you were his favorite starting at age fourteen staring toward the ceiling coked up on bliss and confusion your sense of reality glossed over by the constant flow of wine you were served how it made you stilted made you think in broken circles about the other world outside the one we’re in now seated at a café while you ask if you’re too defective and hideous if I could ever love a person like that if I’m not scared as hell or if I’m like all the others just wanting to fleece another lamb