Even the Dust

— Nicole W. Lee

Beneath the flesh
of sunset, I lead

                                    you to the park
                                    amidst the entrails

of summer. Light
tongues through

                                    the trees’ ribs.
                                    Your body spilled

with the wine
of horizon.

                                    I sit up into
                                    a cymbal of cicadas,

and baby,
I’ve no regrets.

                                    The past so far
                                    behind us

it’s no longer
in colour.

                                    The future
                                    so wide open

I can see
all its teeth.

                                    You kiss the refuse
                                    of my wrist

and I mouth
your meat’s brown.

                                    I just want to be
                                    loved without

being shredded
into pieces.

                                    Below a fork
                                    of light,

you feed the offal
of my fingers

                                    between the ruin
                                    of your lips.

Because loving
in spite of slaughter

                                    means loving
                                    everything.

And I want
to be loved.

                                    How cicadas shelter
                                    even their shrillest voices.

How the sky
to colour the evening

                                    gathers even
                                    the dust.


Read more from Issue No. 30 or share on Facebook and Twitter.