There the taste I left,
gargantuan atop an utterance.

Maker of writhing and other-
wise unspoilt palate

left to scald with whip
of tongue, bodies sutured to

bed. Lactate nettle
these teething trees split

: my torso left reflex
gagging. Gauge my muddy

eyesockets with your bowed
muscle, wet yield

shivered out to mince
our makings. Only sorrow in-

between bed sheets
with a stranger. You burrow

into body, crypt of under-
thigh to test caves.

I sing solemn of the morrow.
Mouth that hooking vice.

Smother out the ember
doubt by encompassing

that lighted wayward bend,
become catcher of clouded

expulsion. Notice that no-
thing’s out except

the sun. Glimpsing of the burnt
limb, inward mooning

mouth meats. Do not
think of the slipup.

Expel cyclical ponders
too saturated

to grip onto, ahold of
no reeds, covered

moss mouths. My rot
black gums you

tied to mumbles, lipping the
ghost of man, his hungry

hollow. No longer
stomach who came and went;

now tip toward, no,
away from lingering

injury. Would you cut
throat to stall guttural

call? Now sap the mammary
orbiting our weaved paths.

That memory caught in the lapses,
doubt not regression into ancient

grace and maze. Must suck
of the moonwater, the myth

of womb, not those who
try to take of it

that arc of sight, encase
spectrum with might I

swallow the pulp til drought
is left and no longer
weeps the flow’ry eye.

 

---

 

Nikkin Rader has an MFA in Poetry and grad minor in Gender & Sexuality Studies.  She hoards dying plants and caters to a cat and dog.  Her works can be found in COAL magazine, lipstickparty mag, leopardskin and limes, and elsewhere.

Twitter @wecreeptoodeep