When he talks, cheeks ruddy,
my tongue shrinks under the weight of my appetite.
I wrap my lips around his Adam’s apple,
mouth stuffed like a prize hog, skin crackling.
Place my tongue flat against his chest
till I taste his heart thrumming like honey against me.
His tender body stretched like a skinned rabbit
while I strip away roseblush meat with my teeth.
Those slender hips twitching beneath me
until under my mouth, he submits.
Dream III: Birds
Young magpies fall into my lap
translucent and still,
curled up, shark eye moon shells
foetal in my shy hands.
They are barely formed
beaks not hard, not yet sharp,
obsidian eyes covered by thin filmy lids,
wings folded like hands in prayer.
There isn’t much blood,
just traces of red on my palms.
Compelled by curiosity,
I push my index finger into the gristle
past the pink pimpled skin
and reach into the tiny heart
which is always still warm
feeling my own chest shudder.
Nora Selmani is a publishing marketing assistant, co-editor of Porridge Magazine and part-time witch interested in gender and diaspora. Her work has appeared in Dead King Magazine, FEMRAT, Peach Mag, and O GOCE. She tweets @arbnoraselmani.