Tempered Magazine December 2013 // January 2014 // Issue 01 | Page 33

WHAT I CHOSE
By Eliza Leahy

A pint from Bitburg
a yawn between my teeth.
On the counter where you sat,
I pulled open a map.
Consonants are soft here.
Shots of still-life:

a nude woman’s arms stretch,
revealing relaxed breasts,
a folded neck.

Stained skulls stacked atop teacups.

A rotting pear,
bite already take
into a mouth
churned by tongue
and spit out
beside the still voluptuous core.
A shiver from my sacrum.
What I didn’t choose:
a spray of citrus, a medical dictionary,
your blanket’s too heavy
leather trim.
Alone counting scraps of pork chops
left to waste between barstools.

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