Leftovers

His sweaty hand
grabs mine, raises it
gently, like you might
raise a peach
to take a bite out of it.

His kissing stops
at my stained fingertips.
“What’s this?”

I was practicing
separating dandelion florets
from their green underside.
And seeing how they felt
smooshed in my palms.

“How did they feel?”

Like they were coated
in a layer of butter
that melted, silken in
my palms. Their yellow
was the most potent
where it mixed with my sweat.

He kisses my yellowed prints.
“Mmm, and what did your hands
smell like?”

Grass, though I don’t
think they’re supposed to
smell like grass.
Maybe it’s the pesticides. Maybe
I’m not that good at removing
the pappus completely yet.

“I love when you come over
already used,
stained.”

Well dandelions reproduce asexually—

He crawls his left hand
up my chest, extends
his pointer and middle fingers
to depress my flapping tongue.

He begins to suck
the remnants of sunshine
from my fingertips,
initiating a kind of
latent threesome.

Maxwell Griego is a 22-year-old poet who is exploring the poetry hidden in the nature of New Mexico. His work tends to focus on weird facts, nature, and his experiences as a queer man.