nimble fingers

s p r e a d

across breasts like webs,
-your nails like spiders
invite me to be eaten/

I hold my sinew
like the filthiest of sacraments/

wind-up clocks make it strike midnight
every hour
I endure,
you impregnate with your viscous/

sullen and sullied
clean up messes
between caresses,
and salivate when you are near/

an Angel’s choir hums my spine awake,
and jade green mist
exhumes from parted lips/

lace veiled pageantries
are churches torrid in the craw/
your palms are nailed to thicket,
bloodied trunks of sycamore
bearing barren fruit

a circus crucifixion
where ribs split,
exposing two wild hearts

in case your chiseled cheat
gorges tediously
on your unspoiled virgin meat




Ingrid Calderon is a gentleman and a brute. She loves sunsets and cigarettes. Find her on Twitter at @BrujaLamatepec

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