Closed Circuit

A closed circuit,

you said.

The intertwining of us so complex

we could not unlock our lips

at 5 am.

 

You struck

deeper

than I knew I was.

The colors of our eyes melted

into a new spectrum behind the sound of rain—

or was there thunder that night?

Or just the darkness?

 

In my body, a hollowing out,

an expansion.

My pulse did not quicken.

It broadened into echoes

in the cavern opening in my chest.

Our ribs scraped together,

and we erupted into flame.

 

A spreading wide of my fingertips,

in the way I’d thought

as a child

I would someday awake to myself.

The ridges rising silently

from my shoulder blades,

dug into the comforter or sheet or pillow.

Or was it the carpet?

 

And now the skin

has begun

to peel

from my knees, my knuckles, the tops of my feet.

I am transforming,

a wet and writhing thing

all tentacles or horns or claws or spirit,

wriggling, grotesque, massive.

 

And the buds on my back—

they may be molten leather wings—

could rip through the mattress,

surrounding us in a flurry—

an electrical storm—

of brown and white feathers.

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