Photo by Mike Steinhoff

What whispers suckle, tugs
spines upright, name god.

Acolytes—mice sniffing
a wet breeze, blouse milk-

soaked at an infant’s cry,
universe ever expanding.

Oh cosmic through line,
teach the weaker sex your

bruising grip. May we find
statements heavy as stones

in throats, stay hands that
push away plates, backs

arched only to provoke
a conclusion. Instead, let

what’s clenched uncoil,
pulse under the tongue.

At dawn, we’ll rise to tuck
ribs into the smoker’s belly.