Hothouse

By Turi Sioson

licking your teeth 

between the 

braided sweat, 

i fancy my hands 

are what you 

like best. 

with painted sea and 

sticky longing, pulled 

from your neck like 

black embossing, 

i trace the holy 

ghost upon your bicep. 

this is where 

my re-religioning springs 

from my chest, 

where our hands meet 

under my thighs, 

and with thunderstorm 

comes the surprise 

that you are 

touching me, 

every part of me 

that you can catch. 

in the morning 

you’ll count 

the tattoos that 

i have scratched.