Lullaby to a Nested Mouth

My cuchi-hole lockbox was snaked by a man in a cowboy hat and whisky breath. Dry hands summer picked that cherry bit, girl crouched in a pleated skirt at the magazine stand. Cowboy mining riverbeds for gold. Now my cuchi-hole lockbox gem glints one sided, and lovers’ teeth shine wet fascination, a Saturday afternoon in the back of a sterile tattoo parlor, blue forget-me-not snap gloves. I speak to borrowed faces, ghosted into cowboy, tobacco and drunk hymn bottles. Swear, the cuchi-hole is a small and perfect gem: A spec of amethyst, circles of purple icing on a cake, a beehive swarming. A wasp sting when I catch my breath ‘cause I let someone beside myself touch my lockbox, and now it sings, no longer allergic to whiskey, it’s more like honey than death.