On the night of a restless saucer moon,
as the budding surfs jitterbug
and the cold sleeps inside the
toothy groove of your back,
I wind my wet linen around your neck
like a corsair’s love noose, make it loose
as the meaning behind the white honey
frothing within your open mouth,
blue lips twitching from the slow
unstitching of a shame rooted from
sticky hands on sunday boys,
muffin cheeks bloating from the
heavenly glut of milky flesh
and moth-eaten youth,
limp dick dissolving from the
sweet waste of love’s spit.
It is on the shore, in a sculptor’s gallery,
where I admire the great gyzym fountain.
It is on the shore, in the boat of August Blue,
where I fish for two little deaths.
It is on the shore, in a king’s sand castle,
where I harvest crab shells in the shape of vulnerability.
It is on the shore, in a locust nest,
where I finally bed into the skin I had wrought and kneaded.
It is on the shore
where you call yourself a starving god and
I worship all your soft aches.
Photo credit: “The Critics,” Leamington Spa Art Gallery & Museum
Gen Ansong is a Ghanian-American poet, writer, and zinester from a northwestern suburb of Chicago, Illinois. She is currently completing a BA in Creative Writing. Her work has been published in Body Without Organs and Same Faces Collective.