Manifold I spread my gender without might or suffering, unfold my pleated sex. Ghostly, I extend the spores of my skeleton, and haunt you with my me. Still, the past taps me like a lamprey’s oral disc, and let me tell you, that shit hurts. Takes me days to get back. Back to my sloped magnet-eyes and soft-serve hips, to the carousel of laughter, moonlight on a spoon. There’s nothing more sensual than your tenderness. With my body, I am, and I am splendour. With my sleek bodega, and ripe testicles—growing a pair. Two, taken together, at the brink, like Starsky & Hutch—or Thelma & Louise. They’re having a ball weeping on the car-hood. I am, and I am splendour. Uncoupling the lethal double-joint that strikes me. Becoming three and four and five, now, a numberless becoming. Not man or snake or wife. Neither cause nor mark of violence. Having said my peace, I can be anything, pluperfect. Stars elapse over my throat. Licking me with spit & vinegar, hot foam down the backs of my knees. I’m shifting from one thing to my loveliest others. In a world better than this one. Looking to my fellow for fellow-feeling, I note there the slight almond of its quiver. And every arrow finds me, shakes me with pleasure, for I am home now.
© Nikki Sheppy