Grapefruit

It isn’t until I storm downstairs into the kitchen—
far away from the bedroom where you refuse—
that I light a cigarette, hoover up the smoke,
and fume, quietly, brows deepening
like the mattress upstairs on which you turn
your back; the acid in my gut surges up
and the fridge yields nothing much but grapefruit
juice; the last thing, I know, on anyone’s lips,
but I fill a glass and swill it back—I can’t sip—
all I can think of as it crests my upper palate
is the falling back in a swish as it lights up
both sides of my tongue and how I love dragging
the dripping flesh across my jaw and how
I would grind it between my teeth and chew
mouthing the words, my God, I want you, you, you.