Tempered Magazine December 2013 // January 2014 // Issue 01 | Page 33
WHAT I CHOSE
By Eliza Leahy
A pint from Bitburg
a yawn between my teeth.
On the counter where you sat,
I pulled open a map.
Consonants are soft here.
Shots of still-life:
a nude woman’s arms stretch,
revealing relaxed breasts,
a folded neck.
Stained skulls stacked atop teacups.
A rotting pear,
bite already take
into a mouth
churned by tongue
and spit out
beside the still voluptuous core.
A shiver from my sacrum.
What I didn’t choose:
a spray of citrus, a medical dictionary,
your blanket’s too heavy
leather trim.
Alone counting scraps of pork chops
left to waste between barstools.
33