Or calling her ripe name,
begging for skin to be twisted,
I bribe her with my back
to the sun, my skin is enough,
too delicate for these loose brains
and fast nerves,
I whistle her black song through my veins.
I burn like tar, like tomorrow
might choke on sensation –
She smells like wet dawn,
tastes like molasses. Deep in my throat she turns
over. Heaven is everywhere.