Georgia, 1946

because my hands would burn to a cinder

were i to slip between your china skin

and the soft give of your waistband

i use a whisper of glass to pry you open,

like an oyster that falls to young

shaking hands

weeks before they will shatter

against your cheek

 

and        how the reeds are whispering by our filthy water

and        you and i                 free and bare and shivering

with only a blade of innocence

between the place where my                               

grass grows

and your sweet fold

 

a gateway to somewhere deep that smells         

of cotton

                                                                           

and blood

 

oh sister!

 

when will we fall from this eternal nowhere

and bake the wet earth like clay in a kiln so that

 

centuries later

 

we may hold this ancient shrapnel between

our trembling fingers

wipe it clear of the grime of age

 

and look

 

my love

 

a shard which is blue

and white

 

and perfect

🌷 (3)

◄ sex poem

behind the shadows ►

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