In the Fields

Jake Skeets

I palpate his chest, a tome, with skin like milk bear-hued. Fingers hum across my forehead into a number. His eyes bloodshot and flaxen from the lamplight. My tongue runs across his shoulders, stone bells affixed to bone. Cathedral noise in the socket, a rotten lisp. Pipelines entrench behind his teeth. I hear a crack in his lung like you would in burning coal. I hear his lips kissing mine as a sermon. My pelvis daises as he chants my body back to the weeds. One day he’ll forget about wounds and lower himself too into bellflower.


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