MARCIA FROM THE GULF COAST
may came over us
like the top of a ferris wheel.
every bird was a blemish
in the clove scented wind.
i thought about oranges,
and her fingers against my neck,
and the tendency of the metal cage
to swing, with no direction.
i closed my eyes, wished i could
touch butterflies without crying.
i only think about it now
because she was a good kisser,
blooming against my mouth
like late summer wildflowers,
sweet with kool-aid colored nectar.
in a few past lives, this must have been enough,
her molten hands in my hair melting at the roots,
the swift rush of her body
like the Atlantic, coming in cold.
every body of water was thick with salt
and that summer was a medusa of a girl,
with the memory of her wrists
slim, like poplar trees,
and i sucked at the skin of my own
like i was hungry for blood,
desperate to be seen by whatever waits
in the dark. june came in, hot like hell,
put me to sleep in the swamp,
and begged me off that crooked tree
on the outskirts of the hunt.
Mallory Pearson is a 21-year-old painter, jeweller, and poet currently living in Brooklyn, NY. She has a great interest in spirituality, sexuality, and femininity, and spends most of her time quickly getting bored of new hobbies.