They tasted open to me. Her fingers tasted open
as chopped lemons; me squeezing the juice into the cuts
until she says stop, it’s okay. Fill me with you instead.
And I say, awesome, I’m glad you’ve agreed.
Time for me. Then all the smoke blows: I
every destination of direction.

And she escapes like she wants.
What was left flits; from above the cold pit
she took the gloaming with her
in her tired fingers. Dangling, round my neck,
they even sound sour. The rind
smacking in my acid mouth.

—–
Coco Wilder works as a pastry assistant in Durham, North Carolina. She’s twenty-two, an aspiring dog owner, and feels blessed to learn from her fellow southern queer art makers. Read more of her words on Oxford American, The Carolina Quarterly, and twitter.