bodega cherries
somewhere south of Atlantic ave
taut skin breaks and a drop
falls onto her shirt, a slow
bloom. I linger
there and continue my journey
downward through valleys
witness it metamorphose
in some borderless nation
left of her areola. my sweat
beads drop onto blue linen
and freckle my shoulders.

to desire is a weakness.
eyes meet with measured amusement,
a dry chuckle
                                                            what is it?

the corner of her mouth
rises to meet its wry
neighbor, furrowed.

my head moves east to west
I look towards Pacific and
taste my own salt. ​​​​​​​
Back to Top