Whoa by Becky Byrkit
for Lisa Bowden
I can taste that tongue for me you’ve set to rubbing in your pocket
Like a stone excited cricket, flint you’ll strike when right in moonsteam: blue
Glue, apogee, cunt of night. Coyotes, a fire round in a ground.
Much hair is all of your black bones suckling
Open in my throat all ready. Why don’t you stick that brillian
Strop, heartboot into my speechless pickup? I want you as a woman
With a man wants a woman: thick wet neck to drive on, one full dark week naked,
Stung. And stinging, sniffing cell through bruises;
Stinking, ochre-dusted limbs. Notice how the desert
Arson fits us like a cave tonight. Listen
To the fetal flex, my larval only opal. Smell
It? Whisper my, my creosote. By my salmon jesus.
At dawn, nuzzled jaw to thigh, jacketed coiler. please us. O my
Shotgun, now, now. Soon can skin sing where,
Unforgotton, button of blood. O currency: the ring around. The moon, and its satellite
Night. Kiss long this maddening, stalling, stillness. Low, watch the ground mouth move.