Sex With Trees and Other Things Equally Responsive Rebecca Lu Kiernan

Breath and Fingerprints

Lavender geckoes cling to
the blinding kitchen light
naked of old eyelet curtains,
they dance, a bulge of lime eyes,
twirling tails, fragile suction cups
naked arabesque.
A lone banana tree penetrates
the old pink moon, the one
we rented from a movie.
Palmetto bugs eat mouse bait
and live, don’t call them
roaches, we have to live with them.
I eat raspberries
the lover left behind
in such a rush, silly me
making pie in a torn apron.
Eye watering snort of
laughter, sweet hysteria,
the intoxicating whisper
of insanity when the
night carousel spins,
mmmmmmmmmmm, aaaaah
the first taste of flesh at detente.
Come, come, no matter how
late. Bring blueberries with
whipping cream, put your
breath and fingerprints
on my every inch, leave the
light on
but don’t touch a thing
for everything is in
its proper place.

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