the air that sparks

The curve of his hip and thigh

the air that sparks

and the words

between them;

something

won’t let her move on
despite the ever distance.

vision quests

her body wants to push a fever

sans peyote tea

the new ink, setting slow

it’s in her breath and bones

a dull ache and weight

a mourn of never was

in each shallow exhalation

flittering shadows

on the back of heavy lids

a long deep ohhhhhm

on the brink teetering

her body wants to push a fever

the same old fears

Nestled on the knuckle of my left thumb

there’s a c-shaped scar

with large hash marks slashed at intervals

from black waxed thread

a tiny woman in tall heels painfully stitched.

It covets a glass shard close to the bone, grating.