Saturday, July 30, 2016

When you’re on the screen

When you’re on the screen

I thought I was a mermaid
with an overgrown tail and black eyes.
Your fingers, a sea of mirrors,
slit my body apart. I felt like a snail
full of anxiety, desiring to taste
your laughter, your thighs
from which windstorms of urgencies spring,
to tangled gannets in my mouth.
But this glass sun, this virtual camera  
of anguish does not live of seaweed
or salt. It walks away from the sea
to grovel in the reality
of you temporary nakedness.

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