by Amanda Williams
Let the longing slip
down the throat,
tipped down into
that poisoned well.
Titillate, let the tuft
and trail run over
the mouth, under.
We rear, and someone
is ragged at the door,
lisping the dust
from beneath the slot,
the frame, the dirt, hark.
Kick and tickle,
that I might be warmed
and the seed may take,
dandle, dawdle, dip it
from my pool of secrets,
metal ladle, lick the rust.
Can this be
the right address,
this ticking old fence,
this leaning rocker,
this dark and dismal?
Declare that I am of it,
and I’ll go in.
Acutiator, will you whet
my lips on your stone
when I am dulled,
when the battlefield’s
gone cold? Accept this,
your office, trumpet,
hack, sharpen.
Protect me, hound,
helper, hand-holder;
the disease of virgins
creeps in the blood,
and the bunting is hung.
I am riddled with field-rows,
plowed by your fingers—
promise, pluck.