• My house wreaks of honeysuckle, patchoulli,
    mud, and tribal warfare.
    The footprints form circles in the cement of
    my driveway, and as we dance our war-faring dances I want
    you to drive all over me.
    With the ferocity of a feral feline you shake
    threateningly and feel your way around my too-formulated
    figure, the silk of your tribe’s regalia mocking my masculinity,
    brushing my pants with its paisley tongue, daring
    me to dance closer: between your breaths, between
    your eyes, between your lips, between
    your thighs.
    And as I’m lured, betwixt the tips
    of your fingers you brandish the hatchet
    fondly named Desire, and strike me
    straight
    down
    my
    chest.