Two of his ex-girlfriends sit, interview
style across from me at a picnic table.
They are pre-adolescent. Pastel pink
Velcro sandals adorn their sandy feet.
In the background, a man in a Scooby Doo
suit sweats it out in the February heat.

Lukewarm paper cups of Pepsi Max
with watery ice cubes like contact lenses clinking
around at the sodden bottoms. The high-octave
clearing of thin girlish throats.

Between them, our main witness: shadow hammocks
beneath his eyes, harangued and implicit. Surprise!

My hands crumble wine glasses into vicious
flowers with skin-slicing Aztec petals.
I present each evil chalice before my adjudicators,
persecuted across the schoolyard.

Into my arms he has toppled like kindness,
but here we are shackled by the idea of decency,
guilt like greying skin in every crease.

While on the surface, our bodies speak through
a tangled yarn of bedclothes, arms in a tender
monkey grip, like tickle-greedy children
crying through laughter for mercy, honeyed into
resin like the keepsake of a beach holiday
in the paradise of memory.

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