Old Lovers Give Themselves Acupuncture on Cacti

You ripped your lips off one day
so you didn’t have to kiss me,
made an excuse that you were
a lizard—wanted to remove your
fingers. When we went to Eastgate
Lanes one Friday, you left them in every

yellow bowling ball. I wondered
why my clothes always smelled
like fear after we held hands.

Now, as you blink your slits at
me, suffocating in a water bowl,
I wonder when I last saw your
face like this. Did you even want
to be cold-blooded? Stuck—
basking on a rock half your days,
tongue slipping between
needles of cacti hoping to taste
a drop from their stingy sweat.

You used to pretend you had
scales that peeled off in winter
like my psoriasis spots after oil
treatments, ones you were too
embarrassed to sweep up. I’ll push our

memories into the vents while you sleep.
The next day, it’ll snow us and I’ll
say Merry Christmas.

Megan Borocki is an MFA candidate in poetry at Bowling Green State University. She is an assistant editor for Mid-American Review. In their free time, they enjoy taking naps and art journaling.