by | Issue #4, Issues

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.