I’ll let you keep going, pillbug, dear,
And continue banding my finger here.
That’s it, pillbug, pass my pale wrist—
Your soft tickles turn my hand to fist.
Perambulate between my lumpy veins
That must be like mountainous terrain.
Step on my thick hairs—Ah! Fear not
My sudden bumps, they’re just nervous spots.
Proceed on this bridge, down my elbow rift
And I will slowly, to the left, my head shift
And spread open my neck to your promenade;
Your innocence gone— dwelling in my land of Nod.
Pace on, pillbug, and feel my loud pulse fret,
Hear my breath fail and taste my bead of sweat.
Gyrate my neck, I trust your excursion;
Then, when ready, stride down for immersion:
My clavicle carries moisture filled to the brim.
This pool is done by you, architect, go for a swim!
My eyes are curtained while over grass fair
I graze my hand and imagine a head of hair,
Gripping free enough to pull life from soil.
The wind blows away the dead as I, a killer, boil.
I smell a fragrance ahead and leave our space
To draw closer to the flower’s crimson face.
My lips perch on curled petals, loose and red,
That have softer lips than on any human head.
Okay, pillbug, it’s getting late now and dark.
I bleat while I place you atop this hazel bark,
Thanking you deeply for longing fulfilled,
For touching my body that no one else will.