please my love.

M Amber Nall

Let me open wet for you. Wet the way of
dark silted lakes. Let me deftly reach out
one gentle hand to collapse into yours, finger by
finger by finger. Let me suckle the rich nectar
painted drippingly along your thighs. Let me
sink your teeth, sharp as needles, wound-deep into
the liminal juncture of my shoulder and neck.
Let me burn you with stoked coals,
let me rise you up the next day, unburnt.
Let me take within my hands
your fragile exoskeleton,
and sink my mouth deeply up against
the swollen battery acid parts of you
until my tongue is thick with scarring.
Let me give over every organ to
your pleasure. All of them. Let me breathe you.
Let me carry you in my blood like a sickness.
Let me carry you in the back of my throat like
a prayer. Let me slowly digest
your ruinous body. Let me fuck hard
into your raw electricity let me conduct it
let it shake me apart, let it climb up and through.
Let me kiss your bones and wires.
Please, the next day, my jagged edges will be
a beautiful weapon. A poem-seed. Please.
Let me bury a toad and five human teeth in the loamy dirt
under the ghost-cast moon, and when I pray
to the old gods and the void, for ripeness, for growth,
it will be six sylllables of your name in my mouth.
It can stretch wide enough to take you.
Let me leak my fluids from every orifice in holy testament,
in proof of my meat body. Limbic. Nervous. Circulatory.
Let me give away my laughter, specifically the way
I laughed three Sundays ago in a raw hurt way
that vulnerable noise drowned in the crowd like a kitten.
Let me cut off your hand on my thigh when I forget
that it is not all other hands that have ever been on my thigh,
unwelcome visitors stealing upwards, stealing--
Let me kiss the open wound of your stump.
My mouth can stretch wide enough. I can take you.
Let me burrow catacombs into your white
flesh let me live there, curled like an embryo,
safe again. Let me sing when I come on your
claws. Let me evaporate. Let me bleed monthly
into my cupped hands. Let me write psalms
in some old dead language that only your
bisected tongue can shape. Let me worship.

M Amber Nall lives and freelances on Darkinjung land in NSW, Australia. They believe words are as necessary as water. You can tweet them @tseiiot.