not the purple of my nightgown. not the whisker of a jay I’d saved. not the man who bought Woo-Woo shots. and slipped my Bic in the dip of his ripped jeans. have you ever felt this heavy? like last night was a shore. and you’re seaweed. coughed and sea-phlegm soggy. ready to be raked into the fang of a wave. devoured into a body defined by its sway. when like a ligature a voice empties from the transistor. exceptionally more holy than the beckon of CNN. more secure than deli paper as it layers the fromage lodged in my freezer. who can live up to their voice. can ever really match the rhythm of their throat’s pidgin. can claim vowel as action. but you. the ripple which quivers when ocean chokes to river. the impossible route. that gasp. that rushing out.
