We’re our own ancestors – courted by swarms of pollen on rivers of amber honey
– excerpt from hymn to the bee goddess austėja
He takes the glass from my hand,
interlaces his fingers with the berryvodka
sweat, tongues the fallen honeydrop from my blouse.
The mattress reeks, though the straw is fresh.
Fuck my body, not my mind,
he begs against my temple,
kissing the hollow behind my ear–
my pulse like a smoking hive.
We draw the moon
through bleached shutters,
pierced hearts reflected
on his calf, my shoulder.
Earthy, raw – his goaty
smell clings to my chin.
I’m done tracing the outlines of ghosts
finished with rusty voices,
Firesmoke drones before muted
laughter. He zips his jeans, tucks
the sheet around me, rubs his thumb
across my cheek, tastes his salty
fingerprint. I’m careful not to stir
as he eases the ring from my finger.
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