• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 03


Fingers curl around woven twists of metal macramé, I face
my face to the light and let it spill over touch-starved skin
my surface fading thinning from the loss of others’ validation.
Into the ragged gap I push, naked against the twisting wires
we meld cold-into-hot soft flesh insisting against the bars
the tang of metal ringing with my rising blood, the colours
calling. Aching, I urge forward, attempt to lick the violet
in the air, to eat the waves of burning peaches, it is coming
for me, at last, and I am fastened tight to this place, locked
in its burning strands. We are one. I will wait for this, it will
come and I will be consumed/desired/absolved once more.