Where does it begin? What leads us to desire something such as a direct stare or pressed fingers against small curve in lower back. What causes us to expose our ribcage to the ones who give us flowers or cupcakes or buttered bruises.
Communion is cannibalism (Nathalie Stephens)
This is a rebirth. This kiss cleans out last year. And (their) touch of verbs against (my) nouns rebirths (my) solitude into springtime roots.
This unsleeping noiseless mouthing. This fanaticism desperate unbelieving. This two fingers sewn together tearing. (Stephens)
Pain is everywhere and it circles like napping dandelions blown up from toothless exhale. It is instrumental, strung up and stung by by swatted fingernails.
Your language gives me order. It says nothing of la douleur. (Stephens)
Oh agony of hips weeds of gender pulled out and suddenly we are Picasso drips we are gargantuous grips of desire. We are one and nothing and bits of what we once were and what we can be and what we hate and what and what.
And my thigh still grows a city. And you will not name it. (Stephens)