A Night with Him in a Hammock

Daniel Mazzacane

What did we feel?

           The soft rope cut trails into our back.

           The bulk of him, thick, corded muscles.

           The topography of our body, suspended.

What did we fear?

           Nothing, but his hands and wet mouth.

           Nothing, but his fingers, curled inside.

           Nothing, but his words, fetid, adoring.

What did we find?

           A girl willing to fit in his hand.

           A shade of pink that he could own.

           A moth with one wing, still flying.

Moths fly to lights, drawn to immolating flame by instinct.

           Did you see the raw scars, the pink left over?

           Did you see me (us), then and now, always?

           Did you see what fire, his instinct, divided?


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