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{the reproduction of profiles} amy king When you talk you speak your beer, just as the foods that sparkle their jewels are not the same exotics as the shared benefits of alcohol. For my oyster afternoon, I rinsed in the sea’s safety, how we rise & how the grass grows back, and back again even as the proper puppy never wags its tail at last. We stand as weeds into motion. I almost slew you despite our differences. I was nearer, my god, to the one who breaks bread and wears a vine of thorns around his stomach. He rejects the voodoo that would have us seated, elbows adjacent, in a factory of friendly compliance. He would have us pour hops into buckets and wait for the nectar that draws out our demons. We would talk. We would brush arms. We would make love, even in the thicket of sex. We are a species exalted by love and her lover, antithesis. We make lovely fire. The fields of our envy blaze beneath a brindle moon by which we yawn and reach, howl and ladle stars from the lake as long as we’re able. My reflection beside yours is a one-handed puppy. Between blows, we’ll mate. |
