of your aftersex/aftershock
the stretchmarks carved down your thighs
are cracks in the earth's crust.
your voluptuous vixen volcano
smogged up my ashtray heart.
i'm learning to love your matryoshka pelvis
and the way it would fit into mine if we were both
nothing but bones.
i'm counting the polyester skeletons hanging in our closet,
the wax-poetic crayons in my fishbowl, and the number
of seismic gasps your slender chest can hold.
this is how many contortionist limbs
fit in your jigsaw glassbox.
the number of spines you've broken,
144 odd vertebra all jenga stacked on a pedestal.
i want to push you off the pedestal.
slip into my arms, rip razorblades from my fabric ribs.
add them to a smithsonian exhibit: "the art of insatiability",
featuring portraits of my teeth on your skin and of
your flesh bruising under my grip,
of your snow-white lies which set fire to the polygraph,
of this somber soul whose weight crushed the richter scale,
of our arms and legs