Love Song in the Gloam with a Tyrannosaurus Rex

Willy Palomo

She be a moon bottle, drenched in the thunderglow.

     I be a storm with the eyes of a snake, with the aim

of the lousy indigenous headdress of Afrika Bambaataa,

     of a Tyrannosaurus Rex with cracked disco balls for shades

& a grill like Paul Wall minus a knuckles-worth of teeth

     — everything I say is chopped & screwed, saliva gluey

as maguey on my cacti tongue. Shoulders melt

     from her neck like candlewax onto my wrists, singe

a lullaby of grief like a red vein down my arm.

     Her hips hammer heartbeats through glass bells.

She be a moon bottle drenched in thunderlight,

     glowing on the porch like a wolf eye in gloam.

The hot glare of her mouth is a synonym

     for summer. I be a storm with a black nose

digging its snout through wet grass. I fill goblets

     with her brewery. She be the moon in a bottle

I shatter against a stairwell to crush moonrock

     barefoot beneath me, to lick glass from concrete

until my blood fractures in light. She socks

     the sockets of my septum with flashes of heat,

my skull clenched between the diamond-studded

     summermouth of an almighty Tyrannosaurus Rex.

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