Marissa Wendolovske

Mistletoe, tattooed to the back of my skull.
Welcome home, chapped lips.
Slapshot taught, "Might makes right,"
but that must be a lesson I have missed.

Can I put my thumb down your throat?
Please, spit into my mouth.
Don't look to the door, dear.
It's cold out there, I fear.
With report of a wintry mix.
And here's the twist:
I torched your coat.

Kept my eye lid ajar and finally saw,
What I now know best:
My body in motion most resent yours at rest.

Can I put my thumb down your throat?
Please, spit into my mouth.
Don't look to the door, dear.
It's cold out there, I fear.
With report of a wintry mix.
And here's the twist:
I torched your coat.

Grandpa died on far-off frontlines,
But that's not the end for me.
I much prefer warmth and the night to take its course,
With your mouth around my tongue.

Mistletoe, tattooed to the back of my skull.
Welcome home, chapped lips.
Slapshot taught, "Might makes right,"
but that must be a lesson I have missed.