Even the Dust
Nicole W. Lee
Beneath the flesh
of sunset, I lead
you to the park
amidst the entrails
of summer. Light
tongues through
the trees’ ribs.
Your body spilled
with the wine
of horizon.
I sit up into
a cymbal of cicadas,
and baby,
I’ve no regrets.
The past so far
behind us
it’s no longer
in colour.
The future
so wide open
I can see
all its teeth.
You kiss the refuse
of my wrist
and I mouth
your meat’s brown.
I just want to be
loved without
being shredded
into pieces.
Below a fork
of light,
you feed the offal
of my fingers
between the ruin
of your lips.
Because loving
in spite of slaughter
means loving
everything.
And I want
to be loved.
How cicadas shelter
even their shrillest voices.
How the sky
to colour the evening
gathers even
the dust.
Nicole W. Lee
Beneath the flesh
of sunset, I lead
you to the park
amidst the entrails
of summer. Light
tongues through
the trees’ ribs.
Your body spilled
with the wine
of horizon.
I sit up into
a cymbal of cicadas,
and baby,
I’ve no regrets.
The past so far
behind us
it’s no longer
in colour.
The future
so wide open
I can see
all its teeth.
You kiss the refuse
of my wrist
and I mouth
your meat’s brown.
I just want to be
loved without
being shredded
into pieces.
Below a fork
of light,
you feed the offal
of my fingers
between the ruin
of your lips.
Because loving
in spite of slaughter
means loving
everything.
And I want
to be loved.
How cicadas shelter
even their shrillest voices.
How the sky
to colour the evening
gathers even
the dust.