Untitled

by Indiana Pehlivanova

Mornings
coffe-stained fingertips 
my water-logeed copy of Big Sur 
how its pages breathe in
the wind 
with immense appetite

sometimes the sun 
barely creeps outside its hollow
it’s only a pinch of earth set ablaze

we’re all just bandaids and rain 
hiccups of radience
here and there 
braids of electric wire and orgasm

we stop and start 
like lizards
on grave stones

if I ever have a boy I would wash
his eyes with darkness 
so he is never afraid of it

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