in the basement our crevices become maps
we point to the tender parts

the shrill of deboning the wounds,
the daybreaks those scoliotic stems

cling to, the brine we chug in spring
to keep the tender parts green

now frosted in charcoal,
yeasted-over and gargling with ice.

but this is just winter
swelling

and the lights may have gone
burnt but the dimness gapes so beautifully

at night.

his body: swung in the drippy-foam.   As gunmetal
cements unwavering   bites on his collarbone,
I force myself from    
hunger  and exodus.   maybe i, too  
exit like light,         searching warmth in mouths  
            un-flavored         desolate electricity.
maybe i, too will compress my body into       bruise
and swallow     the excess.
but for what i want is to want        his syllables
leashed around my neck,   peeling the
ululated marks hugged on my belly.        i wait for the flooding
to swell us upstream.