If you unzip a poem, what remains? he inquired. Bee stings, deer bones, wilted roses, and time itself, she replied. And if you make love to it? he asked. Well, she answered, sex with a poem is never just sex. Sex with a poem is an act of terrifyingly beautiful devastation. Poems don’t want your body; they want your words.
“Fragment 33” by Meggie Royer