#2

one day it is:

your bottom lip, winter-split
two fat sides, a heart, I want to lick

a boy in a brown sweater who writes poems
poems that wriggle in and finger my lungs
poems with tongues that peel me back, say open
then lick, and lick and lick.

her hair a mane, her eyes, feline
hazel flecked in amber and green
the way, at night, she spoons
legs twisting our limbs into perfect roots
as the sea spouts, fuck that, she yowls and

I renounce every pond, every lake
the sand hard at my feet
water clean as glass
there are no veins in this body.

at times it is the streets
the rattle, the stink, the ones with
the open mouths, asking again

and when you reached in and pulled it all out
and when I reached in and tried to fill.





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© 2018 Monica Lewis