deep breaths for the womblight;
we make our own fires, here. We heat
rooms, houses, beds. We
question the nature of such things: moisture in
all forms; how water will facilitate the warmth.
Does she still glow? Hot like a tongue.
And these are the blunt objects:
skin, its tissue, the whisper of it.
I have watched cold hands pen loveletters
at midnight, four am. Forgive: backbone
will slant and deform. Our heat will not allow
anything but mercy. Hunchbacks. Every one.
he sat in the back
his head slumped, cup
and as he would
I would reassure him that he was beautiful.
If he didn’t prefer penis to vagina, I would have never kissed
Ice slept down pathways to my father,
to the front door, his wife and her scorn.
And my feet
were not sure enough
to do anything
Rounded as an abdomen carrying child;
this table. Our hands keep us
from ever loving
with their false warmth.
He passes over me
with a wink, so we can both pretend
to know the other.
This bed and
perform dry hump in my slumber;
I shear at my sheets with bitten nails,
throw pillows at the ground, curl around
the dog huddling into me for safety
Copyright © 2004 sarah allard. ALL RIGHTS