you are not an orphan. you’re an old old oracle. you are so the story goes. either god or the devil sent you here.but I brought you into this world and I can take you out. I see your face when I see my face. I tickle you even though I hate being tickled.your teeth are in my mouth and your voice rings round my root chakra. sometimes your weight is comforting. sometimes it is wearing too many layers in the winter iodine euphorically swabbed on scant bees knees. an appetite without rhythm. you’re a lion prowlpouncing through a garden eating abandoned with your whiskerwisp tongue.I sit on the porch gurustyle blinking like a grandfather, clock coock-cooing.
your bladder full tilt and your stomach empty worded the splintered soleness of your feet sweat maple sap you salivate indigo you sing hymns in monotone monotreme flanked by jitterbugging angels balancing a boom box on your head my rotting bucktoothed mayfly my crushed cicada of a girl keying a Lexus you prude box of fusty plums a gray prune gravy cake a hoax dumpling watching from the kitchen window while your friends gambol in the summer twilight do you need intimacy do you need to be ravaged are you sexual are you sensual your mouth says no but your closed system eyes whisper yes you went from confection flute to rat king you look like a painting like a mermaid like a turkey leg at the Renaissance Festival like the strength of coffee God would drink you like to watch iridescent Technicolor dreamboats and belles chiming Ave Regina Silenus screaming in the wilderness sandbar chafing your inner thighs shaving your cherry wine armpits you bang and shower with the lights off and saunter into ice cold tides where the water meets the clouds you talk like an almanac your hole in one eroded and you have become so cinematic in your indecent infancy a hyperreal fleshly goddess popping cucumber chewing gum you do not intimidate me I know your secret desires and motivations the confessions and intentions you hold back if you were a flawed bevy you would be red alert or purple beech you do not want to brag you want someone to notice your insecurities are potato salads and soups piling up at a wake you tell yourself you are a superfluous hexed helix but I marvel at your sanely sanded ticklish skin change your pasteboard password you are too predictable your ears are pinned down you cannot hear me so I will repeat myself
Sade Murphy is a poet and artist from Houston, TX. Sade is a graduate of the University of Notre Dame, the author of Dream Machine (co-im-press, 2014), and a columnist at Real Pants (Lonely Britches and What's the Tea). They are pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing and Activism at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn.