Hunched in the shower, staring at my crossed legs through the milky dew of water in my eyelashes, I wish the shower head a gun, to increase pressure and weight by powers of ten, to explode upon my sore sore back, sore from weeks of excess and unthinking chess moves, sore from days of flu fever and bed. My back would arch and recoil as if I were coming, maybe I would come, my ribs would splinter through the thin skin of my chest, a roar of violence trailing blood and flecks of gristle and semen to pirouette towards the drain. I would be all laugh, all joy, all tears, all dead and ripped apart, dying so satisfied, dying in the cataclysmic orgasm of relief.
That's how bad I need a back rub right now.
Shall I tell which colors I see
dancing in the prism of dust
afraid to settle on her aquiline head?
No, not yet.
Shall I tell you how she tastes,
what lightning is, what red wine wishes it were?
No, not yet.
Shall I tell you how she smells,
shapeless herbs free of our fisted taxonomy?
No, not yet.
Seas of sun on wheat,
something sweet and melted in June.
No, not yet.
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