In the mornings we ride

Copyright: boggy

throat thick
with the sludge of living
the slime of men whose
names I roll across my tongue
my alarm clock
cock crows

I deny again
like Peter

stretch each finger out from
a fist
counting my age like
rings scarred in the heart of a tree
is this the way to the revolution

the bed creaks

my dry lips parted in question
met with use

function over form

form over purpose

and when he is sad

I swing my leg across his torso
lean my breasts against his chest
ride my way back
to a place I’ve never been
to a place I never belonged