Small Sacrament
I recite the psalm of collective holdings,
spell your name in hunger pains
& lines of wax-spill down my back.
Three star-shaped bruises on my sternum
appear as suns collapsing. You spit in my mouth
once & I asked again & again.
I would like to tie cherries between my teeth,
smile something wet, red, & promising.
Instead, I let the ritual rot on the altar,
strawberries sweating through their chocolate shells.
I’ll say I had no choice but to tie you,
eyeless & heaving, to my thigh.
There was no other way to keep your heart
carnelian, keep myself from all my rage.
Look how well my body bears it:
needle marks, the scar thicker than your pinky
finger bisecting my navel. This weight on my collar
will ache, proofless, for days.
Still, I am not half as fragile as the curve
of your hip bone. Some of us were made to tear
& some to withstand the tearing.
Let me play the softer sex— kiss your wrists,
obscure the antlers bisecting my temples
with the swollen fruit of your fist.
