When We Speak the Language of Ashes

by Michelle Dominique Burk

All the walls smell like you: the smell of green on
the Earth’s tongue. Even your eyelashes are inescapable.
We are falling toward the detonation of ruptured

neurons leaving only pink and squish and I am the
beautiful me floating around myself above your head
asking you to please grow your beard out once more

even if it isn’t for us, and you need a haircut fit for
fighting lions. All the air around me is made up of Lagunitas
and your unbearable collar bone. The animals are becoming

striped against the window. The cows are melting down
to brown puddles. Let’s splash in them. When you wrap
your body around my body with brevity there are too many

tentacles of ink in my glass of water. All our dying is black
and purple. I wipe sweat from your forehead and ask you
to tell me the word that breaks you, and if that word is pleasure

please turn the car from the road and fold into me. I so eschew
your existence. It is winter, and all the doormen on Madison Avenue
are sleeping. Their doing for the day is done, as is ours.

 

Michelle Dominique Burk lives in New York.