TIDE

1 November 2017

Who named you
White hot strike?
Decided this here:
Touch each of my hairlines
Who spoke of clean cut or dash or steel-toed?
As though you don’t crawl beneath the carpet
Rotten space you’ll smell for the rest of days

The other night I held another’s head
In ecstasy, shook you loose
Cradled between sinking bones I felt the return slow
I said: It feels like you’re sucking my cock
I meant: we’re not alone

See there – that sting in the curl of one nostril?
You’re nothing without this
Each time you lope through skin I hear your double negatives
Something sickly slides against the busted lock

This is what is pulled loose
Scraped half-circles low and dark and unseen
Even when I wear your cum to bed as a shield

I want this aching constellation you left/to make it count for us
Instead I have it all
(So much less)
Though I know
We could make it out alive

 


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