Great Kills Review

Winter 2005 – Volume I, issue 2

John Murphy

Cuts of the Tongue

I will no longer eat razor blades at a quarter a pop.

Coney Island to Venice Beach; Pier 39 to Bleecker Street.

My tongue will bleed for no one.

Especially not you, World’s Smallest Woman.

Remember after that sip of 151,

You said your mitten could fit a kitten.

And I said I was smitten. And you asked

Why I was spittin’ and I said,

“Part of the trade.”

It was cold in Sheepshead Bay, when we slept

In the bathroom at the car service depot.

That rat was fatter than you.

It was hot at Muscle Beach, when you lifted

In the sun for that fifteen-dollar sum.

All day I rubbed your rotator cuff.

Remember when we broke up at the Wharf

And the comedian saw you bawl?

You threw up. (Poor sea lion!)

And then off Mulberry Street at San Gennaro,

When you had that sign that read:

“She puts the little in Little Italy.”

You wouldn’t talk to me. They laughed.

I stopped tasting blood long ago.

I woke up this morning,

And I looked for you.

Inside the pillowcase.

Behind the shampoo.

I looked inside the ink of my tattoos.

The axes on my cheeks. No you.

My forehead sword? Nada.

You’ve taught me that what’s small

Can be too big. A bug can kill.

A blade, too. So thin, oh so tasty.

About the Author

John is a tenth-grade English and Creative Writing instructor who teaches at Somers High School. Before moving to Westchester County, John lived in Troy, New Paltz, Poughkeepsie, and Philadelphia, where he earned his graduate degree at the University of Pennsylvania. He has been published in The Chronogram, Urban Graffiti, The Poet’s Cut, Promise, and Kota Press and will also have an essay forthcoming in the online project, Ruminations on America. You can reach John at jmurphy@somers.k12.ny.us.

“Cuts of the Tongue” © 2005 by John Murphy

*All rights reserved by the author – no work may be reprinted without the express consent of its author.

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