Concertina clavicles, you shrug and knitting needles escape flesh. Much genuflecting will follow. Alight, we shuck oysters and lick pearls. This is making love. This is the Northwest Passage. This is the loose thread that preludes hallucination. Imprisoned in nomenclature, you are unbridled and scathing. I wait for the word.
One word and the sea parts.
Later, nausea from room-service cocoa. Stomach acid and cheap dextrose begat curdled intimacy and bedridden bedfellows. The sheets are damp. You dry heave and I’m seasick, riveted by radical empathy, lurching across the bed with a bucket. Eat me drink me, the gags tickle my throat. Hunched over, you are a marvelous, shining shipwrecked thing. I taste brine when we kiss.
Natasha Burge is a writer who lives in Bahrain. A psychogeographer by day, a poet by night, she is pursuing a master’s degree in creative writing, working on her first novel, and drinking all the karak chai she can get her hands on. Her writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Jersey Devil Press, Zetetic: A Record of Unusual Inquiry, Pidgeonholes, and Crack the Spine, among others.