Archive | 6:38 pm


28 Feb

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


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


tell them my unhappy secrets,

leave souvenirs at the

spaces I inhabit

so the world may love


a little more.