foxglove

now you have once again. now I draw out this gag, this deflated glove of muscle. it is a coral reef; an armature of bone grown up around fountains of venom. this triage grows crises. these don’t come in singles, but sleep in the hollows of Siamese organs. I look down in you as if into grey bathwater. We take our time choking the reef, fingers intertwined, thrusting foxglove onto a bruised blue tongue. the deflated glove pounds insistently, as if to remind me of the coral’s thrashing. the afterbirth swells up in drifting jellyfish plumes: pulling them up from their roots twangs already taut nerves. now the glove once again seeks your bruised blue tongue; there the ashes crust.