Tuesday, October 11, 2016

the red tent

the crest of hip, two ridges rise and 
stomach pools between them, rippled like a glass lake.
the bump of ribs; speed bumps, wooden logs, things that make you go 
slow.
left hand pushing down onto the mattress, left hand pushing left hip like
grinding lemons,
bitter, 
sweet around the seeds.

the combination hidden
somewhere inside,
your fingertips graze the lip
of paper, almost.
i am a long, deep well
few have reached
in accidental discovery or clumsy
conquering.

i slither like a snake around myself,
watch movies too dirty to be relatable, clean.
pour jasmine between my legs and 
cock-back my jaw
for swallowing
my own tail.

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