R. Erica Doyle

bodas de sangre

a hound in sweat, I stalk a trail purposefully left,

the rolled cotton sausage of your tampon on the floor

at my convincing.  If this continues a month or more,

we’ll both be sticky in it:  when the smell and chemical

of us wracks our bodies with the same tide internal.

I do not have to be as close as this (enough to peer

into the pink and moan of you, scalloped sails unfurling);

it could be an office, cell or palace;  anywhere the scent

of lunar memory’s corporeal time shivers.  Even through

its most deprived, the pattern link delivers a syncopated

offering, the promise of your blood and ova swimming true

with mine, the bath and wine men mimic in gods’ houses.

Unbidden, this body strips clean for next season, prints

the pillows with carmine fingers, marks time with brine

and rust, sinks through the rippling mouth desire trusts.