Ariel Gordon

Afterbirth: over spilt milk



When each of us is stuck to the other

with a mortar of sweat sweet milk and the sun setting into our evening

my hair already tangled up knotted in the hot hours

amidst heaped pillows

I discover I have had enough of the cut

and jab of your kneading fingers


As I stoop to nibble

whimsy tarts herself up as a cocktail waitress

turns the half moon into a wedge of lime sucked to shreds

brings me the idea of fingernails in wine to tell the future

all your moons pared down to slivers

and the tang of tannins the flick of keratin against the crystalline ring

of whimsy laughing at the crook of my back at the let down

of hours in the same soft pose


And as I wonder what the soft shreds

sifted into the empty bowl of my belly would say

whimsy sasses suggests that I might as well try

scrying the spilt milk

the fat drops

that fall on your belly your back

before it all soaks in