Unlike yesterdays, when heat licked skin;
today it started—sloppy kiss by newbies slow,
then, letters fell—fast, furiously hard,
darkening the pavement, weeping paths crisscrossing window panes.
Tracks become words shot from muddied brows,
rolled off ladened tongues,
beneath eyes-red,
betwixt sunken cheeks.
A fresh waterfall through broken-quill,
puncturing parchment—pumping letter—after—letter,
till blank fills,
spills over;
sleek limbs pantomime in the showers,
half-naked children playing double dutch,

When the first cock crowed,
perched on an earth mound,
sequestered by us-others pecking corn;
who determined the order?

Only one could ascend to announce the break of day.
Who named him head?
Did we not bring him egg forth,
these thighs give him warmth,
pry him soft from yesterday’s steel shell,
cradle his vulnerability betwixt wings,
shield his brow from the burning crescent, he announces now with plum.
Suckling tits were a refuge while he rode our backs.

Didn’t these limbs birth his seeds and mine?
Did that give consent for me as less?
Did it deny me
velvet purple,
leave me straggling for discarded bits?

Why so angry?
Do the bits not fill your stomach?
It’s how it’s always been. I decide; your body—my choice.

He wonders why we
picket the fields,
drown his crows with our heckles,
pile the mound,
block the sun,
and scream,
What came first, the chicken or the egg?

Dawn breaks through clammy sheets and morning dew,
last night’s words sandy grains against my skin.
The back and forth that led to you taking the couch
a nuisance mosquito in my ear.
Each sequence fast forwards and rewound—gauging for inconsistencies.
Macleans frizzing on teeth and tongue, discounting loss in dragon’s breath.
Perhaps her fingertips on your arm did not mean anything.
Perhaps nothing happened between you on that business trip.
Perhaps the lipstick on your collar was a remnant of my kiss, not hers.
Your ‘I don’t want to fight’ is in stark contrast to the tiles underfoot.
Perhaps I slept alone when you were away—a stranger’s limbs
cumulating goosebumps where his lips traveled.
Perhaps guilt will find its way with scum from the brush,
spat from my lips, down the drain,
enfolding me in bulletproof.









Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels