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