You Swallow Me by Micah Yee

Truth or Dare by Natalie Voelker

You Swallow Me

I ram the door frame, getting you in—forearm rouged,
welted. Later, it melts to mottled blue, jaundice yellow.

Your liver is your savior, charcoal-black shirt plastered
wet to your torso. My taut fists are like rope knots

of net, hauling against the weight of you. I consume
your cocktail of bitterness, my nails making blood moons

in your skin as I pull you in again. I reel back,
tow hard until your shirt seams are ripping.

You, the unsavory catch on the grass—home becoming
another place to collapse. Your belching conjoins

to the cicadas’ chorus outside. Look, the world darkened
beyond our front door—wide-mouthed neighbors,

silent sky. Stars rise like the gold champagne bubbles
of our wedding night—or white spray following

the biting hiss of new beer. You’ve soured both,
for me—bottle after bottle endlessly beating me

to your lips. Booze-sunk, you settle out deep.
I drag you in, you swallow me.

Micah Yee

Micah Yee has served as Editor in Chief and poetry editor for the West Wind literary journal at Azusa Pacific University and is currently working on writing and publishing while traveling. Publication credits include the West Wind, Crux, Two Words For, The Milo Review, Polaris, and Compass, with work forthcoming in the Tule Review.