Body Chorus

There are moments when her body calls to me. When her eyes seem to have invitations in them, crawling out of the irises. This then disappears like she has hit a big switch. A body switch somewhere on her body that cuts off the communication. And we seem to tumble back out of reality. A reality forced backwards by her, like a lump in her throat scrambling to the top. Yet there is no hint of desperation in her fingertips. No apparent subtlety. No mistake to it. Only perfect message and a matriarchal familiarity. And I swear sometimes she doesn't know how to look at me. Faggot, eunuch, or brother; they're all the same to me. But I catch her slipping every once in a great while and something escapes her eye. And some wakeless nights I've felt the dense flesh of her tongue in my mouth.