It’s an agony of sorts, passing by trees
Unharvested, sagging under the red load
I had a thought, to pick myself monthly
I had a thing in my head, to be made of wood
A wolf-eyed totem, hard lips a slice of memory
That boy I fucked, up in North Carolina
I stood under live oaks by the bank
In my scarlet dress, and he walked past
When he slid inside he moved through me
A river slowly achieving the delta
Hair hung rivulets against my neck
The sweating breeze in the Spanish moss
The shiver of him emptied and died
A whirlpool opened at the back of his heart
Elle n’est q’un trou
He said within earshot, not knowing me
That I understand more tongues than I speak
That I keep clotted things in kilner jars
That I would one day hack his face
Into a found log and smear it moon by moon
With all the children I will never love
Offerings to the god of one night only
Kirsten Luckins 