You’re a young French woman from Martinique, modeling linen
and holding a cactus. A succulent,

please find attached the image of your good looking leather skin
choppy with pores, and scarred
by the wake of a cruise ship that knows it doesn’t belong.

We’re waiting on your body like a screwdriver, wrapped in waxed paper,
to never stop turning over itself,

but will settle for frozen chunks of your hidden parts
bobbing up and down like dough
forgotten in a refrigerator
for weeks.

I want to fit the whole of your neck into my mouth
I wanted to show you my teeth in an email

  • You knead the pier with your small waves like a dog sniffing at the edge of a bed
  • knowing no one will touch you.

I imagine your body as a cake viewed from outside
the dirty window of a dimly-lit oven
rising in the heat by the strength of your pores

your pores are the last bubbles of air
trapped for decades in the cabin of a car
that finally rusted out.

Up close you could swallow anything,
but from far away
you’re just a blue line

split open
a young woman’s legs
giving birth to the ground that has you surrounded
or more of yourself
the same

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