tiny apocalyptic breast

barely rising above seamark

soul, a risen fir, growing deep

from the seam of a ring stuck between

two fish. one blue, one black.

the color of a freshly gifted bruise.

a dent from an angry rock swells on the side of your car,

color of blood,

a child left in the back seat

to map out purer intentions of anger, and oil.

watercolor heart, worn at the hems

saint lucy tugging toward a stranger

as if

these garments were holy. mary magdalene begging

to have her cunt sewn shut;

i hope for a better end, to not drown in my lungs.

sirens that long for knees, to open wide then close shop

saying, sex

sex

sex

sex exists

someday, there will be the sea and no fishermen

and little fish of gold and crimson and halcyon hues

will swim directly into freshwater wombs

dwelling and sighing

bodies made for land rooting, darkly,

pooling gently open

and then, finally, you will call this body a house.

no lover slighter, or with sincerer heart.