Estuary
Here, you seek solace, gliding in your vessel, sinew
pulling skins taut over its cedar skeleton, the quickest blade slicing still
water. Spear-fishing the silver current, your spine
perpendicular to the cloudless sky. With the longest strokes, you surge
into the river’s mouth. For this you know there is no song.
Here, you coax the heat of your body into this cool water,
and soon after, how salt crystallizes upon your shoulders. This quiet portent,
slick, translucent sea kelp, patient buoys spilling tadpoles from their
ruptured pods.
Here, you came on foot once, when you were a girl,
weighted, breathing arid winds for days. Trudging through
wild grasses and sage, whiptails scurrying about your ankles. You
shivered in the cool night air until the glimmering and gleaming of water
catching sun returned light to your lungs. Your hummingbird winged heart, and
still such silence. Stepping upon the salt-lined shore, how the breeze tickled
your face and hair. You scattered your father’s ashes, dissipated his words;
some say you bathed in your father’s ashes. Some say you breathed in his very
words.
Here, no dragonflies accompany you, only the lean sound of
you breaking the water’s surface. This one song which only
your body could compose.
Cherry
After
Yedda Morrison’s Crop
liquored push unfolded
thighs he advances inserts into girl inward breathing
machine peeling sugar tongue mine tears tender unripe cherry bleed
blow her rupture condone mechanical
pump fire when she opens
mouth ingests he inserts hands spread eagle bind nightshift quiet
skin frozen invites
entrance tinseled hostess slivered blows job hazard
teeth break in fruit
flesh wet lips open handled
pulling it is dark
Pink
Wet work as a euphemism for movies of a young short skirt,
showing all her pink, with still-wet newspapers and staring people. Fluttering amateur, brunette teen, spreading her tight pink, her
sweet, sweet wet pink. Picture her describing how he wet his trousers,
how he transitioned into a man who “longed for the pink” of a sniper’s rifle,
the very warning of what may be found lascivious by ascetics. A wet pink rose,
unaware of the war that raged inside of her, demanded red carpet thick and
pink, quite wet from her being fucked so hard until she couldn’t take it
anymore. She had yet to learn that war policy is neither made, nor altered
while hospital naked and shaven. Dreampink and pearl fortune spilling, his throbbing gun. The day
after the blast, she sat in a dirty shirt watching the adults’ wet clothes
strung above. A spigot was the only water source for the tiny pink flowers
growing, the basement of girls in wet shirts, hot and blonde, young sucking
teen sluts of gangbang galleries. Their frenzied
little faces saying stop the war upon teen pussy, pink and shiny,
parted petals and swollen flesh. Picture her, slippery, cleaning the floor bent
over naked, the color of bunny ears, the color of don’t cry, the color of don’t
complain about wet feet, about war games, about problems of fires spluttering
out before we bang her wet body in the rain, in the quiet dream, in the pink
pieces of the sunset.