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Interlude
In the aftermath of my storm, my beloved will touch me the way I like, all practiced & knowing. A pause of intention. A rising murmur of skin. They must think, this will make us feel better, & it does for a while. We greet a dead spring this year, but the magnolias still weep as far as I can tell & the cum trees are spreading their scent unhindered. I wake up to my beloved’s gift of mangoes picked from a sun-filled pile at the corner store. When I dig into them, their husks feel like bones in raw meat. I think of this excess, the task of eating around it & the mess that is made. What does it mean to take up space inside this house? What does it mean for us to be together in abundance, to embody tenderness continually? What is the difference between ripening & decay? I hold the fruit with both my hands & eat it to its core like a small & hungry brute, lapping up sap. I wipe the evidence from my face. It remains on the surface, a song around my mouth. |
