Ingest

Ingest

I want

the earth to swallow

up those

mothers and children.

A clean, quiet

consumption

to let us be.

So I can trace the

outline

of your jaw

with my tongue

and bite

your chin

beneath the tall pines

and let your full

hand

follow where fingers

have ventured down

past waistband

and skin

and carefully

chosen lace.

I want

to feel

the scrape

made by

bark against skin

as your body presses

hard against mine

and my lips

and gums

swell

from the force

of your intent.

I want to hear

the kind words

you are saying

as my mind

leaves the pine

scented trail

and public

laughter

to a vision

where I am

straddling you

on

an august bed.

There

I want

my conscience

to eat away

the good girl

image that I clutch

tightly onto

so I can

consume you

noisily

and feed

my

own

desire

photo and poem by Lisa Murphy-Lamb

In A Brown Study

In a Brown Study

she tasted philosophy

on his tongue

where

spine

against

spines

he flattened her

argument

dead.

Lisa Murphy-Lamb

Hockey Night in Canada

photo taken by Lisa Murphy-Lamb

Hockey Night In Canada

Lisa Murphy-Lamb

My father

sits in his chair, feet elevated

a tumbler

deep with amber whiskey

at his side,

watches

Hockey Night in Canada

like he does each

Saturday night.

I play

with a loose front tooth

my tongue pushing it forward

and back

and read from

a yellow bound book-

no baby illustrations

on its cover

a grown up reader at

eight.

Come here and let me

see that tooth

I put my book on the couch I open

wide

Is it this front one?

I nod as his fingers go to my mouth

and I find it is hard to swallow

with my mouth held wide

but I do stand

still

saliva collecting

around my molars,

I breathe through my nose.

A cheer

from the television

and my dad looks away

and

blood,

the battery

warm taste

fills

my mouth.

My tongue digs deep

into the bloody hole

as my mother

comes from the

kitchen

with kleenex

Dad hands me

his drink

to cleanse my mouth

the ice cubes

clink together.

I allow the amber

liquid to linger

on my lips

brace myself then

pour the liquid-fire

that bandaids

my mouth

and,

like hockey and my weekly

bath

schedules

Saturday in our home.

I swallow

then settle

in

to his lap and

against his broad chest

hold on tightly

to the crumpled

kleenex in

the palm

of my hand

inhaling the whisky

on his

breath

And wonder if

he

too

can smell it

on

mine.