Maree Cianci

Bei Schlawinchen

I cannot deny trouble
any more than I can

my own name (iamb
when shouted, trochee

if whispered). What
do we have to lose

after all?
Just teeth. A few

thousand
years of sleep.

Lean here;
I like when your face

hangs above me, not
quite fruit, but I’d quarter

it anyway. Serve
your tongue—

that delicacy!—thick
on fine china (with

tea?). Keep your lips
for myself tho, 

wet in my apron
pocket. If we know 

any wrathful gods
one of us will

be turned pit soon
some pile of rough, ugly

stones. But night tears
itself open. Ruffians 

still clamor for
beers. You are the last dark 

left holding me, pretending
not to breathe.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Maree Cianci lives in Berlin where she writes, works and sometimes gets paid to make people laugh. She’s had the pleasure of being published in GASHER, The Rumpus, Autostraddle.com and Marie Clarie, among others. Her storytelling event series, Club Motte, has been running for over a decade. She would love to see you there.