taste test by alyssa witvoet

I name you Magpie; 
you call that projection. 
Collections of lopsided heaps of rocks, and leafy 
letters lean against my bedroom walls.
Words pile up against the windows,
and my tongue. 

When you lay across my bed, lay
your palm on my neck—
whose throat do your fingers mark?

I can’t help but wonder 
if growing- and speeding- 
up are synonymous—like our throats. 
Duplicates, like bones and bread. 

Devour them both, savor the brittle crust as it 
cracks (between) your teeth.
How else could we distinguish where one
ends, or the other begins?  

Can you feel what I’m holding back?