‘Flint and Ferrous’
Gold and 9mm rounds,
I swallow them whole,
brass biting my throat,
wrapped in silver foil,
tongue tasting the burn—
hard money for my soul.
I flick the lighter—
it sputters, catches,
your grin flickering,
and the fire drips
through my bones.
Your touch—a match,
a jolt of ice, phosphorus,
and a striking taste
on your breath, mint
and muddled fruit.
Molten metal pushed
by pressure
through my veins,
pulse quickening,
heat tearing seams,
or so it seems.
I turn to oil in your hands,
a slick sheen, sliding—
massaging my chest,
ribs counted,
as I hold my breath,
and that’s just a Sunday
or a Friday.
Nothing left,
but to resurrect,
and die
for the sins of a man,
you spreading my limbs abreast,
staring as this daughter rises,
and rays fall
as my back arches.
-N&A