Tomorrow I’ll throw this thirst
who sits heavy in my chest—
widen my mouth to smile
out his weight. Today though,
I lust for his leaden presence,
how he urges my lungs
together like a kiss, the pressure
of my ribs immovably clinging
to my spine. I often conflate
dependence & love—both familiar,
soft. When he scoops the pleasure
from my throat & shapes it at a wheel—
as one might a vase or an urn—
I lose myself in breathlessness.
Andrew Walker is a writer living in Denver, Colorado. His work has appeared in HAD, Crack the Spine, Eckleburg, paperplates, Apricity Press and elsewhere. He reads poetry for No Contact and pleasure.