I fold my sheets, neat, something real not loud
Neath’ blankets rhythmic wants understand
Wonton me, magic charm, gestures folding
open armed at an angle.
Weak knees turn pirouettes, instead of resting weep face, run,
discern, cry nothing against societal rhetoric, filthy thick,
might exalt backside.
Rattled me bones, learn what we have here is down right into
the linens empty, indeed, term it retrofitting a fuck style,
measurable to the new era.
Hi. I like you. Brand new delusions refine love in comical censorship,
bared teeth laugh laminate across tickle spectrums,
when I belly up you, new style.
Hold me down, sheets and all, neat.
Slow as January creeping on,
Slow the hours steep,
Backward as if to repeat a tremble so weak.
Mercy, bathed in its medium,
No more laughter, no comedic air
To cleanse a palate ready for war
Against all the prophets asleep in their chair.
Pull my hair dealing a reason to wait, palpable state.
Slow like honey on springs thaw,
Slow down, empty, slow down raw,
Intentions rake the communal call.
Honey down dripping into song
Rip apart the aftermath, weep where you bleed
Across an understandable distance, desire
Won fighting, inspired,
Sucked up oxygen ready to fall
Into the heart of abandoned boyhood
Forth comes a stampede of what would
Be fatalities ring, a woman made to sing.
Amie Norman Walker is from metro Detroit, Michigan. Writing in her free time, she works in the community mental health field, while raising two children. Find her previously published work in Ash Tree Journal and X-Ray magazine. She tweets at @crawlintohabits