Impregnate : A Prose Poem

The journal is washed clean of words, the contours of body inked thin: the earth with its axis has tilted just so the light over the ocean can catch the lines. The air gathers foam from waves and pins the dress in bands between the legs.

I have to turn away from your eyes not to drown there, the salt in the breeze settles on my skin where your tongue draws lines. There’s nothing the coiled serpent will not  lick – the brown mountains, the fuzz of dried grass that catches fire as it lays eggs in the insides of me.

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