(This is a "lovely found poem" my dearest friend and platonic soulmate, the elated Sarah Pospisil made out of some pages of stories of mine that my printer was really enthusiastic about fucking up. So, this isn't really my fault.)
Umbrella
his hand around
like embers black with ash
I feel his thighs around mine
I can taste his secret message
I fall onto
his hands between my thighs
too salty, too strong
the space between my thighs
I try mud instead
I still don’t see what’s supposed to be so damn great about brothers.
(I swear the originals were less trashy and concerning.)
No comments:
Post a Comment