Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-six Winter 2014 |
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So You’re In Love Damon Ferrell Marbut Tell me of the tattoo across his chest as though I haven’t seen it in your pictures, how the sharp sword’s edge near the bend beneath his arm pierces your temple when he brings you to bed, how the sweat of him becomes the tears of you, and I will call you out. There is no bone plate, no split of the cell that will name him yours by touching his chin with your tongue. Care to talk of fire instead? Invite yourself to the curve below his navel and send him somewhere he’d call Heaven if he could speak. Do it with your body, your elbow at his knee, unfold and then fold him, an accordion of flesh, put the rosary of your knuckles against his back’s small, bead for bead, and labor for it, labor for the moan of coming or of wanting to come. Love him geographically, or like a saint before sainthood, press your cupped mouth at his inner thigh and give his frantic leg your grin, graze a drifting rib with the freckle past your heel, swim over him, angrily, as if he’d left and returned, assail the moment of his making and then make him, darling, make him do what I want done to me. |
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