You slither to the
small of my back
in souciance,
bearing tales of
caramel and teak;
a live forest of cicadas,
a mother’s solitary gift,
you cloak me
testily,
at whim.
Your loins they bear
men’s callouses,
their brownness stealing
yours brazenly;
Your urn flecked with
the sweat of a hundred
(and three) orgasms
and the urgent need
for memory.
Embrace pillows while I
sleep,
tell them my unhappy secrets,
leave souvenirs at the
spaces I inhabit
so the world may love
me
a little more.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi