The sloppy slap of thigh
to belly, the slurp of sweat
slick breasts pulling away and
away and away from the center
where we stick. This is sin.
The hungry din of gnats swarming
over a picnic.

The pawing carves me out.
I’m nothing. Confetti of voice
and fat, canvas to be bled and
scraped and bled again. Browning silver.

Watch my fingers become thread
with the linen, my face a pillow
case, my brains down, I won’t
even swat the fly on my cheek
because my cheek is a crown
of batting, seams unraveling
on the fault lines of the quilt.