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Two Hot Girl Poems photo

  1. My god is a hot girl

    My god lives between two girl-lips. My god is girl-tongued. 
    At a party full of hot people, hot girl god dances 
    on the kitchen table. Later, she follows me to my bed, 
    she tells me she feels infinite and heavy. My god

    says yes. O yes. My god rides 
    her bike, waves to strangers, experiments with wind. 
    She’s water blue. My god is drinking from the garden hose, 
    her voice a shivering leaf, a snake’s rattle.
  2. My god is a moth.

    My god is an insect who knows childhood 
    by egg and cocoon. She drinks bird tears, licks between eyelids— 
    a sad sustenance. She’s bashing her head against the light. 
    My god is a bee drinking turtle tears

    to make honey. There is god in my honey. I learn all of this 
    on YouTube. There’s reciprocity even on the internet. My god 
    is a cow eating earth, returning it in milk. The sky falls 
    water and my god offers you an orchard.
  3. My god is morning. 
    My god is a bathtub. 
    My god is a sinking island named Manhattan. 
    My god is the world wide web. 
    My god is purple cabbage. 
    My god is an antidepressant. 
    My god is my sister. 
    My god is a walk around the block.   
    My god is a bouquet of bodega asters.
    My god is a meadow of chirping bugs. 
    My god is mid-twenties friendship. 
    My god is body-ocean, a tear drop.
    My god is this warm sip of planet. 
    My god is this humming earth.
  4. God! In my honey! There is a god
    in my very symbiotic cells— in this body that gives and takes
    and kisses and dances and neighbors and tends and laughs and laughs 
    and if this is not prayer, what is? 


body garden

collarbone snapped easy
because my longneck. even my butchgirl adam’s apple is. and my hips are. open plain of me, wide wide wild open skin. my babysitting money paid for ballet. yes, this taut posture taught. inner thighs flesh jello, knees bent like bugs, face cut, but balance is my shoulders. cheeky peached cheeks, ripe spice, tits nice. my spine splits tight skin which cures like an olive when i lay it out to the sun. touch on the part of me, please, that is both inside and outside, please. like a tongue on tongue. i am no small gulper, i leave nothing in the wet nest of dreams. when i spit in his mouth, he said he tasted tulips and outer space. i said, yes, i’m ruled by mars. she lives inside this body, which is no temple, but a garden.

come into my bed 
of perennial black hair, undying eczema, beloved weeds, stripped peas, cut marigolds, the deaf ear. notice the old sunken hole above my belly button, the one i let a man pierce when i was age thirteen. oh and my fingernails! the ones i used to eat. look! now they’re jewelry! look!
like mini clam shells!

i feel me 
meet up in the delta of my hands. fingers capped in shells, born for art and smoke, and for keeping rhythm. when i lay my body out to other bodies, it’s my own river that turns me on. this that is mine is all mine and i want her, too. 


image: Bianca Dunn