Hot and sticky.
She peels her thigh off the sun-whipped chair and
sucks her upper lip into her mouth.
One wetted hair curls, slinking around her throat.
If I lie here long enough maybe she’ll assume I drowned
and rake those fingers through my Mediterranean muff
to clench my pex and grope me to life.
I would call her Helen if she’d let me, yes.
Protectorate of cement seas, burning sacrificially.
(J-me Odom)
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