I eat them bent over the sinkwith a spoon, naked usuallyand their fluoresce drips from my mouthdown my chin, to my chest, and makes my lips itchand my handsand my tongue.
I swallow,and Pleiades glows, hot, blue, all of her,and grants me just one wish:
a rose gold platter. A ping, a pondering ina pause that dawnsmy awning, a glass that’s glowing, fluorescing like a promiseor a hot blue predilection thatthrust in my facemight feel likepermission.
Want knows futile, knows fleeting, knowsfucking that tastes like fruit that dripsthen leaves you on read. Call it a perversion.She knows perversion, and she knows willing,
has practiced stoicism, and can swallowwhat hurts: the hard, the thick and its gravel.
Inside desire goes to seed—sweet fleshy foldsthat dawn fruit—fecund, pink, and dewthat glistens, granatis—a rose nests in a lotus—
and both are the color of peoniesand neither is the platterand they turn their phones offand spend weeks inside each otherbecause neither are wanting, because both are allowed to eat
words like reciprocity, permission,promise, and delirium.
Outside, Pleiades wanesand a pelican pricks her breast, and when he eats, she swallows.It doesn’t sting,the red, the dew—
Sometimes, it itches.
Photo by Shlomo Shalev on Unsplash