Issue #11


your dank hair trails
her skin. Catches
lashes. Refracted
lamplight scattering
their faces

in mosaic
false warmth then
swathes of ethereal
blue shadowing
the slants of your starved out

her legs bowed like
two curving
two dun whittled bones
You refiguring
the smooth translucence
of a limb
the netted black purple vein
in their crescents, shadowing
her echoing stare

She hates my wan little
upward look and
the sweet sweat
laced neck I'm sick for
and after, the way
I chewed you over
the way your
numberless ghosts sat
behind my eyes
as I spoke.
The fractured angles
of your gaze pinning me
to dead minutes

Amber McNamara