Top Left: Trini Shultz
I conform like an alcove
around your extraneous contours.
My shadow ebbs, sagging beneath
The pillar of your light.
I begged the gods for your attention,
For the chance to seduce you,
For the chance to tuck myself
into yours rifts like assorted buttons.
Your hair is wild with hints of
Anise and cinnamon.
Your smile is a crucible
in which I am quietly boiled.
There’s no meat left in your heart,
Only gristle. I’ve only bones in mine,
A second rib cage behind the first,
smaller but denser like a shark’s teeth.
Someone once told me that I was all marrow,
savory, buttery, full of grit. Was it you?
I stumble in the elevation of your cervix,
in the caress of your womb
as she envelopes my malformed psyche.
I crack under the gravity of your inversions,
your coffee shop intuition, your sultry, black
nocturnes running in rivulets down my spine.
No has ever entered my darkness
with such clarity, with such hunger
as if my soul were a stamen, pollen-dipped
and ripe for fertilization.