Mo’ Mots

I once dated a man from Sweden
who told me that he was vegan.
But when my oven was hot
and I greased up the pot
He couldn’t even put the meat in.

Her
deep purple
insides opened up
to me, cloven and chasm,
no os for the head to stretch.
It slid through the slicked mush
of her violently coursing violet flesh
and lay cloaked in wet crimson mucus of birth.
The umbilical cord was tethered to some place within her,
lost in the darkness of her gaping wound of a cunt.
Pulling for whatever was left behind, I shut
my eyes against the jelly of afterbirth.
I wiped the slime off its face,
but there was no breath.
No sign of life
outside her
womb.

Fall comes slowly, precariously
and with much fanfare, announcing
its arrival with gradual crimson carpets
of leaves, toasted from the final burst
and bubble of the summer sun.

Balmy weather gives in to balmed lips,
a protective sheen like the PVC
of raincoats waiting to break
their hiatus of mothball closets.

The wind rakes the trees
and bends them
to winter’s way.

Naked, our eyes shut against what we choose not to see,
we share virgin kisses of those who know not much more,
so far away and foreign of what we’ve become.
They only remind me of what we still could be.

In the dark, looking at the glint of your eyes,
I kiss you back. Wet lashes pucker together.
Reaching, my thumb sweeps across your cheek,
across the dry expanse of distanced flesh.