In June I recall the thrill
of spreading my legs
open not even for anyone
but myself
I want the wind to grip
my thighs. I want sap-splattered
hips, spider bites, my pelvic bones
to jut like stilled sails
In June I’m a seraphim
serrated open by a druidic blade
I say, teach me why
I’m the way I am. I breathe
into swaths of burlap
my alveoli are the eyes
of fish speared to the wooden slab
ricocheting, blood-slashed
In June I do the gutting
& more than that the heaving
I spill my own entrails
for five minutes of being
able to crest my own waves
the cool slough of ending vigor
our cheeks swirl euphoric green
hands wrenching open a net until
I am convinced this cannot last
before it even begins
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One of the most passionate and unique poems
that I have read in decades:
“I want the wind to grip
my thighs. I want sap-splattered
hips, spider bites, my pelvic bones
to jut like stilled sails”
Bravo Poet!