your mouth tells me your young blonde son’s water-fear
how he slipped out from your slit-open stomach
and your plan to stand in
Salem beneath the solar eclipse
all in a loose shirt the color I imagine your nipples must be.

while you speak my body
steps outside my body
and leans over your man,
right knee pressed between those two
too-narrow, widespread thighs, breasts at
his face that stares straight ahead through thick-lensed spectacles at
your-self conversing with my-self in
an imperfect 3 (almost 4) bodied szygy.

I (w)ring my wrist in those long loose curls pull
his heal-pierced ear to my hot-breath whisper and
I ask him for permission to you
may I have your pregnant wife?
may I taste your pregnant wife?
may I take between my teeth those
soft parts of her inside-sigh?

this was soothsayed three-saint-patricks-days ago with some other Her (before I knew you) in a desire atomized in several slices of a single moment, just pieces of one second, really, but like so bright light beneath pressed-closed eyes — it happened after I rested my head in that deep beautiful curve of her lower back and gripped her hips in requested pressure while she moaned against a wall. It happened in front of a hospital bed under bright lights and her man watching maybe from somewhere in the unfocused edges of my memory– because she was leaned into my face hands making sweated prints on a metal tray so close her breath was my breath, light liner-smudged eyes greened in unanticipated pain, small breasts swollen in black bra cups, hair wilded from early-on writhing against the headrest of a Jeep Wrangler and I knew I wanted to be the one kneeling at her bare toe-painted feet hand up the mystery of her long black skirt predicting the moment her body would split open wide at the twat.

 

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M. Main lives at the edge of Seattle in a brightly-painted house. She trades in paraphrase and synthesis – medical data, research, and the results of interviews molded into semi-accessible content about baby-embedded wombs, impressionable bodies of youth, and the utility of breasts. Her writing is often informed by the hours she spends gently interrogating friends and strangers about their untold interior lives, self-denied desires, and other quiet things people don’t tend to say aloud.