View Archives by:


Sex with ED

Louisa Spaventa

The sun is standing in the corner—

face to the wall—

at my insistence.

My lips are lips

of an unbaked teacup.

Mud-mooned fingernails remind me

how we tasted royalty:

spine, breasts,

you may crush me

with small rocks topped in pebble.

We press against the cold, word slab.

Clay is imperfect, as all

perfect lovers are: between my fingers

tokens harder than flesh.


I will dig softly—

Geologist folding back snow

until she hits

smart strata shifting below.

A pearl or ruby

or just the clasp of you.

Taste metal like stone,

numb, bewildering,

a fall on cement remembered and healed.

Hematite circling my ears,

ears blush and glow.

Your arms moving on my shoulders

pretend to find in me all

cruciferous petals

you once touched alone.

I will give them monarch names or

moans. Rake soil,

my lower heart on your

glowing white knee.

Met in scented graveyard and shared

this mud.

Louisa Spaventa

Read Bio

Author Discusses Poems