When you cry like that you sound like meat being tenderized
by hand
Beaten, flipped and
beaten again

If I'm deathly quiet
it's because I want to hear
the muscles flatten

The sun pours in from the other shore
and runs its fingertips
over the shank

Like a butcher in love!

Here- you can wipe
your hands
on my apron

*

It's not heaven
it's the early dark
Everything fighting
to be seen

Hands and
stars

Sometimes the bed seems to be made entirely of skin

Sheets of skin

Onion and Egyptian
my legs, your
stomach

Honey
I can't stop grinning

I'm having so much fun
trying to relax
around your fist

*

It's as if we're both standing on the wilder shore of some
immaculate kitchen, our towels folded neatly, into
bleached-white columns

I love your spine, chef

Serrated
Butterfly
Bird's Beak

I love
your technique

Lifting the veins up carefully in the early light and then
putting them back down again

Lifting them up
Putting them back
Lifting them up

*

Do you think there's a difference
for the Lord
between

slow dancing in the kitchen at night, no music, your arms
around my neck, and later

my face
in your ass?

I think His home is covered in dark leaves
cicada wings and
promises

a peaceful night
a perfect death

*

Are you hungry?
Do you want to get up?
Do you want some coffee?

I want to bow very low
all the way to the ground
actually lie down
my face pressed hard
against the tiles
my arms out, and bow
to your fingers
your parents who put you here
your legs
the backs of your knees
your mouth
your chin
how you smell
how you smell at night
bow to your voice
across the kitchen
crooning

Come here
Come back
I'm going to bend you
over my knee