Sex with EDLouisa 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. Incubate—defoliate— 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.
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