i.
Take off all your clothes.
Let every pore whistle
for a moment think
of warmth. Think of that
dull thud of your heart
underwater, like it is porcelain,
loud / hollow / cold.
ii.
Imagine climbing that shadow—
a dark paternal birth
like quiet anger, or the one
second after a shower in winter.
Imagine how he is nothing but
nothing, shade after your feet.
A small compromise, but I
want the water gone from my ears.
iii.
When you were in the passenger seat,
what did he say?
Can you really remember it?
—All there was, was heat,
my hand his crotch the shirt
stuck to my back his hand
on my head elbow sticking to the
arm rest like cottommouthed spit,
like all there was of earth had been
sucked of soil & green & salt
& the thickness of him.
iv.
Think about fucking more than
you actually fuck.
Bite the inside of his hip until
you hear the kettle come to,
& direct which way his spine
twists with your tongue,
your hands on the pink
of his lower back, focus on his hips
let every twang be a blessing
all naught / tight / wound / rolling marrow.
v.
When you cum,
be proud of how your body
leapt without purpose, how you
let yourself give without push—
no catalyst.
No matter how loud you sang in him,
we sang ourselves so purple
the only thing we were missing
were crowns.
JOSEPH JORDAN-JOHNSON (they/them) is a fat black queer writer & visual artist from the suburbs of Chicago, now residing in Portland as an editor for Cunjuh Mag. Their work has been featured in Nepantla, Jackalope, and University of Chicago’s Blacklight Magazine. They’ve earned a Gold Key from Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and Second Place in the Glazner Creative Writing Competition at Santa Fe University of Art and Design. You can hang & listen to their pitfalls on Twitter @authenthicc.
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