Tara Leckie

i dream of work
ha ha ha ha ha
what else!
a towel dispenser
folding out raw lamb
to wipe down the bench with
I sleep with outrage
wake, and you draw me close
move in instinct, fold me to your chest
you smell of yourself
and the hours of your temporary self
the evening shifts, cutting meat
in a long, dim room
and dreaming of your own dreams
i cannot claim them
i will not try to
but, whenever I smell your hair
it has a burning scent to it and
sometimes, your mouth is open to me
ripe with milk,
and I turn back
then back to you again