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
