I ripen rigidly
unfleshed, unscathed by the swollen sea of your saliva.
in my angelic opinion, you are
but still, you lick this wound
with an oneiric tenderness, twisting your tongue indecipherably,
scrying. somewhere in there is the Truth
and you’re searching for a way to tell it.
you coax it out,
make me utter some lost sound, half ancient. At Delphi,
the priestess was door/gate/threshold.
heaven and earth she held
while the god would enter and cross and breach.
Here, I leak prophecy for you. eye contact and blown pupils
as you wipe the oracle off your chin.
like, now you see your future
and it’s wet and warm and open.
Julia makes me undulate on her
while I contemplate swimming under
her eyelids, wading through the tattoos on her arms.
I’d like to be her small siren;
cracking pepper over every meal we eat together.
I watch her suckle
swollen scales and
think about growing legs for her.
Morning Sex in the Aftermath of a Catholic Upbringing
under the healing, you are a stained-glass window that
I have always wanted to eat.
In the half-world of pleasure between dawn and daylight,
I sink into your mattress.
They said I’d burn for my sins,
but hellfire could
never come close to the heat that
spreads through me when I’m touching your skin.