i cut the moonlight
from your unshaven throat
with my tongue
my skin wrapped jaw.
mother sat in the kitchen bending spoons
under a moth light, a light flickering
scratching starched colored shadows
into the walls. the creases of her face.
your naked thighs, gathering the
blueblack cold, the cold thick at our chests
you strummed my rib cage, felt you teething
on my blue veined wrist,
i could hear mother singing, a song, the crack of her
voice like a snap of bull’s eyelid, the snap of a child’s bone under
his father’s fist
i lick the inside of your ear
thinking of how i never told you i used to kiss my mother,
in the haze of bathrooms, the back seat of my grandfathers model t
how i lifted my cousins’ skirts above their waists, pushed through the tight dark skin, pushed
through sour flesh, and how i knew, yes, how i never wanted to go back.
and as you lie next to me
mother still humming, twisting scoured metal, the metal of your bones,
i smoke to remember those times
i think of all the things i never told you,
and when you ask, i will only smother you with these fluids, these smells, with me pushing into you
smother you with the burning
inside these ribs.
from Ditch Water
© Joseph Delgado, 2013