Whoa

Becky Byrkit

for Lisa Bowden

I can taste that tongue for me you've set to rubbing in your pocket

Like a stone excited cricket, flint you'll strike when right in moonsteam: blue

Glue, apogee, cunt of night. Coyotes, a fire round in a ground.

Much hair is all of your black bones suckling

Open in my throat all ready. Why don't you stick that brilliant

Strop, heartboot into my speechless pickup? I want you as a woman

With a man wants a woman: thick wet neck to drive on, one full dark week naked,

Stung. And stinging, sniffing cell through bruises;

Stinking, ochre-dusted limbs. Notice how the desert

Arson fits us like a cave tonight. Listen

To the fetal flex, my larval only opal. Smell

It? Whisper my, my creosote. By my salmon jesus.

At dawn, nuzzled jaw to thigh, jacketed coiler. please us. O my

Shotgun, now, now. Soon can skin sing where,

Here? Clutch

Unforgotton, button of blood. O currency: the ring around. The moon, and its satellite

Night. Kiss long this maddening, stalling, stillness. Low, watch the ground mouth move.