She is a sweet doll, three tiers high,

a nipped in, ivory dumbbell.

Her nails, bitten down, flash in the crook

of his arm.

 

She looks duped, evangelical;

her face catching the icing underfoot

a little.  

There is communion.

 

She steps forward, pressing her hand into mine,

our fingerprints, lost in glass -

uniforms, shapes of dust,

her eyes greyed,

 

flat, fish eyes.

We look thin; spaghetti

threading from his mouth,

in one kiss -

 

consumed.

Pale, I fall through her,

and the shop shows

alarm.