-- and, after you, 
it takes after
    
tasting like boiling mud pools.

 

I have neglected all of the things on my bedroom floor.
For years.

They’re like pooled dead fish,
parched.


You tilted your head back
as we stood outside your cousin’s house you made a throat weighted gesture
of simultaneity
of protecting
, and, 
of surrendering of sounds.

Spots of hair on your neck
don’t seem to move but your freckle
stretches
and when you gulp back
it seems to gulp, too.

And as I watch I feel as if I am looking up
towards the surface
in a pitch black swimming pool
shared by leaves softening and insects whose eyes never closed
whom once, I felt rivaled me
whom at once -- I felt pity
for they face upwards towards more of the same
and I, 

I get to see you. 


Or perhaps, arguably, 
what you gulp is these waters
and within them the whole of me.
Something to ease my size, for you.
Perhaps.