We are in her bedroom.
The lighting is crooked, pale blue
consumes the creases of the curtains.
Our shadows move on the walls
like crabs crawling on craters
at the bottom of the ocean.
We fuck like crabs in a tank
in the lobby of a restaurant
toppling over each other
for the edge of the glass
we cannot reach, grappling
for the rim that leads to our end,
inverting, submerging in water,
in claw, in teeth. She doesn’t
speak. I can’t speak. The imperfections
of her frame contorts
into a cohesive beast
and we filter each other
of all the rotten things,
quieting in the pores
on her stomach,
weakening in the folds
of her fingers.
In the molds
of her inner thighs
I hear nothing.
A rupture occurs
and pounds
like a blind bird
in the bosom of a tree.
We breathe.
Photo By: Julia Nogueira
