drawn from life and taken out of context.
Wolf Paw Slumped on My Breast
Belongs to the long limb of a lean and gangly body.
This thing, this oversized velveteen mitt—
paper-sanded by an intricate history of calluses.
Palm is rough the way a hungry whale’s bristled grin is a sieve.
Each long finger shaped by surprising elegance,
and each pad distinctively callused, could
gently thumb a ruby bright nipple, and,
for a wooden tree house, could
plot and carve a tessellation of strategic pegs, and
could with aptitude, do so, string a tiny ukulele.
Just as easily it’d yank a woman’s hair because, by feeling, knows she likes it.
Break the neck of a bass guitar because likes the feeling of break—
ing objects it didn’t make.
Such acts betray the run-on digits of their origin; the guy who wields them.
This sly dog who’s cool hand cups my breast as he snores.
I feign sleep upon his mangy, no-good chest.
His resting heart sounds like a dirge played in the cave
of an ocean shell clamped to my little ear, Only.
I curl around its noise, and with the point
of a midget’s claw, trace
the outline of a camouflaged areola.
Asleep like this, he might as well be speaking to me.
Slow pounding boom frame’s the hiss of exhalation
who’s answering treble is breath’s groaning Echo.
The occasional twitch of slender index finger
tings singular ripples across my breast.
If he never wakes up, I may be caught
by my safe trap of hot paws, and might never stop listening
to the accident
his body was made to make.
Silent Eurydice Searches for her Sleep
Imagine Orpheus had been the one bitten.
Eurydice instead of him.
And she chooses the world under,
stays to wither there as her cold lover
sings her into her own deep
and seedless sleep,
only for eating by the ghosts there.