WORDS BY CELIA ROSE
ART BY PACIFICO SILIANO

I rake my hands down the hill.

clumps of wet grass 
cling to the webs between my claws.

Stomach burning on mud, 
leaf, and clover.

I inch toward 
the gold rectangle below my head.

Suck world into my lungs, 
exhale it onto dewy ground;

slide my breasts over 
the slimy, dark curds.

Downward, 
I drive

until I see muddied toes 
peeking up on the porch,

spine flush with damp, gray wood—

—like our backs grinding on the grains 
of her dark suede couch.

Roped in arms, 
eyes glittering with tears 
while she recounted the shock 
that surged through her bone 
from the glow of my name 
on her forehead,

             Never, 
she whispered flecks of wet into my neck, 
lips trembling slow through her heaves, 
            did I think I’d ever hear from you 
again— 

—blades of grass sear the valley of bone and blood in my hip.

The dots on her dress 
bloom into stems and petals, 
and I screech her name—

—shoot spoilt blood 
out the side of my mouth, 
feet wobbling backward as

sunlight punches through 
the windows 
and burns a glow on his face.

I shiver 
behind the ray,

arms tight and flat 
against my hips.

His veins press 
against his neck 
like snakes along the wall 
as he moans her location—