poetry by Ellora Sutton
Her hands silk my throat like syrup
leaving sticky sunspots, the hot honey drink
I spent my childhood believing medicinal,
fairy rings around my throat.
It is not soft. I do not want soft. Fuck soft.
There’s a poster on her wall. The anatomy of a flower.
So many parts, so much about pollen
and sex. Stamen, anther, stigma, ovule,
receptacle. Open and starving.
I turn to lilies for her.
Under the blaze of her fingernails
I am seen. I have never felt so beautifully seen.
I beg her with noises
to touch me until I am baptized
in the holy water of my sweat blessed with her sweat.
All I have ever wanted
is to exist.