The world must break you open
so it can live inside you.
All your small griefs to pry from.
Red cheeks, it is the teeth I want.
Bowl of rubies, your blood juice
kiss stained. The news of it.
A grenade tossed into
the moonlight of my heart.
Explosion of stars.
The world under your skin
darker and sweeter than desire.
You open the earth of me.
So plant me in the quiet.
Then water me with your breath.
You are a cell splitting.
Wine spilled, my hand on the knife.
You, a geode of seeds.
Who would have thought this
was prosperity? We cling to each other.
The room a womb, then
a tomb. Under the ground
a city of jewels.
This is what knowledge
looks like. Tastes like.
Carly Sachs is the author of the steam sequence and the editor of the anthology the why and later, a collection of poems about rape and assault. Her poems and stories have been published near and far and included in the Best American Poetry series and read on NPR’s Selected Shorts. She is currently a yoga teacher and doctoral student in rhetoric and composition at Kent State University.
Image: The Tiger Swallowtail by ©Chuck Miller