These glass-rips, on starboard sail, float across potted water just the same
On street corner of the travel polaroid, I am a snake-prince or wolf-charmer
Twenty-percent of the times they break my skin, I don’t even care if I die
With all I can say, I mostly say what I say
On a Sunday night before a Monday morning, wine and poison only differ in bottle shape
Turning tufts of rough cunnilingus prayers into voodoo dolls of us for the blessed kissing
Our tongues dance similar in overindulgent belly dancing under an old smoking jacket
Whisper between your thighs; hear my voice call me better than I give myself credit for
You claw my back like my old church pew, showing me justified genuflection
Knees that scrub the more infectious spots know love can get sore
I ask her what do you believe in,
My elven mermaid with bay windows for sepia sunflower bulbs,
When you are the thing that is believed in?
About the author: John Maurer is a 22-year-old writer that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between — things that aren’t boring to read, hopefully. He has been previously published at Quail Bell, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, The Scarlet Leaf Review, and The Foliate Oak.