Love Untitled 23
I’m being pickled,
fermented in my own desires,
drowned in rice washing water
like swamp spinach pulled from a
Thai canal left to bubble in the sun
and destined to be devoured.
I hunger for your mouth to take me,
to give me relief from this burn,
these dancing flames that ebb and flare
and constrain my day and hold me captive
till I pace like some creature
stumbling on the edge of dementia.
© Zen Oleary
December 27, 2004
