Examining Infidelity in the Anglo-Saxon-Primitivist Tradition
His: exotic symbols. Like, you can’t imagine. a plantain.
a breathing concerto guava. Blood persimmon.
sticky—sweet and sweet. His was like that. His—
did I mention?
The way his juiced the life out of me? The way his
felt while all else gave way?
Put another way, his was et tu brut? His made me
a Lilith, or siren to push he under agua. His fixed me
a Diana totem, laureled with a ripe ossein crown. We together,
we cracked clavicles, scapulas, pubis, and ulna in the basin. We licked bone meat,
salty marrow. We together were ripening in the red sun
and I was asphyxiation at that point in the rites
where I lose all feeling everywhere.
Was I his, or he’s?
Suddenly, it all sticks. Him. He. Scapula. Bare chest. Me. What
was his was his metaphysics all on my lips. It was
basically a confession—meant to purify the breath, said him.
Bite mint leaves, said me.
More than hands. Feet. Wrists. Knees, was what his wanted.
I try to calculate. A cup of water fills. Losing all over again