Читать книгу Solve for Desire - Caitlin Bailey - Страница 13

CHURCH, HIPBONE

Ready tender mass. Glossy rope, we bare our teeth.

Equal the church, the hipbone, the sliced ocean.

That old yank in the throat, bedded for days. Perpetual tangle.

Something bent, fashioned in fits, memory of your arm

filling a sleeve. A blue whale’s heart is the size of a small car

and I am finding it hard to imagine anyone who would not

be moved to think of that vehicle. I want to drive fast

into your mouth, leave nothing on the table. Ridge inside

of me, hurt spot continually worried, thumb brushed

against collarbone until it begins to crumble. Which parts

belong to me? Just the blossoming, or the tongued flat skin?