#1
A dream in which, finally, we let our hips kiss, furious plumes of wet heat, a
pond to lake to ocean, we form new words with animal-scrambled letters,
twinning sounds, an echo released, an echo swallowed,
the pups turned wolves in my gut, my womb ever howling; this is where I'll keep you. But come
morning, in the wake of our imagined waves, you dissolve, and I lie clawing at
the years lost to fear, how now, at the news of your disease, I would give you my liver,
my life, if not already ruined, all the years I kept drinking, a fish with
a slurred mouth, gulping at anything except the sure flush of your love.
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© 2016 Monica Lewis