Mar 292015

by Micheal McConnell


Some menopaused fear dismantled

my dreams of Athena with all


of Greece between her thighs,

her period blood dry beneath

my fingernails, yet I feast


on ankle meat, the ethereal

fireflies circumcscribing your

little girl cresents, where small


blue and yellow flowers colonize

the margins. May I kiss all


ripe parts until your teeth chatter

and morning forgets its name—


as our imaginations weep

children to life, our garlic tongues

tracing hearts against each other—


and fold you backwards, pulsing,

logarithmically, buried deeply?