Bonfire Night

Beer bottle.
Neck. She wraps her fist around
the brown glass and you think, neck.
Funny word for it.
We gave it that, made it
human, made it
killable. The word is mortal.
The violence is ours.

 Her thumb soothing up
and down through
the dripping condensation:
lips to mouth, God,
bottle mouth, river too,
do we say bottle-necked?
She might. I would.
She’s looking at you,
your throat. Jugular. In
for the kill. Maybe.
If it gets dark enough.

 Your wolfish loyalty, her
canine smile. Oil, water. Woof.
She reads you like
a crossword clue, which is to say,
she doesn’t. Killable.
The combine slick of your collarbone:
a leash in her maw.