Andrew Warburton
Vodka
The bottle kicked by her black-stockinged foot
spilled no vodka. We’d drunk it all.
You saw our backs rotating on the floor.
My soft tongue was not shaped for the rough
dog-flesh between her legs.
The scorching of her zip.
I told you her lemon zest
was on my lips.
There was horror in your eyes.
The ice cut asymmetrically
on Moscow river
would surely cool this shame.
Or vodka. The unique sound
of splitting cubes.
spilled no vodka. We’d drunk it all.
You saw our backs rotating on the floor.
My soft tongue was not shaped for the rough
dog-flesh between her legs.
The scorching of her zip.
I told you her lemon zest
was on my lips.
There was horror in your eyes.
The ice cut asymmetrically
on Moscow river
would surely cool this shame.
Or vodka. The unique sound
of splitting cubes.
Page(s) 36
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