sounds #6: washed up

dirty like a barnacle
dull and prehistoric
my torn edges
just above the tide line
I hear his pulse in the surf
his fingers rasp the sand
and search for mine

the sun angles me
dries muck into my hair
my warm breasts
peaking shell-like
I watch the horizon
salt-rough
stare straight
until his hands recede

making #2: cupped

A ritual of steeping
and infusion—
you’re my hot water
stinging
and I’m leaves
on your tongue.
We billow and boil
steam rising
my body curled
perfectly in hand