Michael J. Wilson
Pebbled skin, waxen and orange
The brown spot, softer
press my finger in, an entering.
Pulling pith, dry cotton space
juice, and pulpy parts on tongue.
The tearing of finger
into soft skin, the pressing.
Rind like metal, like rubbing.
Not so sexual, sensual?
A rusty serration on my thumb.
Arrows don’t flower so much as cause flowering
Point on skin blooms vessels and spills white light
Why are you the bulls-eye?
The raging thorny forehead lashing against red
You covered yourself in goat skin and came up the hills
kicking dirt into the eyes of anyone asking anything
Spear points fly, enormous arrows exploding
making your back rupture into a field of poppies
You mate like this, making Minotaur of our love
You Pasiphaë, you thinly disguised ex.