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