I dip my feather pen into you,
by Zoe Nyght
ink bottle of inspiration,
as I dip my tongue into you
licking at the frosty sides.
Trailing my fingers across your palm-frond skin
I drown my feet in this opaque lake
and swim to the bottom, wishing
I could be forever
smeared here with the coral red seaweed
(where bubbles float and quiet is the norm)
but I see myself a maple leaf mirage
with rusted bark arms and crow black legs,
entangled in your branches,
as whispered and wandering as my own;
together we make a racket.
tantrums and smoldering feet
venture across embedded nails
and massacre our limbs to uncover our souls.
In this scrawled black metaphor,
we roll with the waves
in a melting pot of graphite milk,
into ripples of black ink and soon
we all become raven-haired.