Molly Fish, pen name, poet with no other found identityMolly Fish
Carry me down into that liquid place again where we meet without talking, even though sometimes we’re talking, where we laugh without making a sound, the punchlines floating off untethered and the corners of your mouth tilting up like commas around some beautiful phrase we don’t have to try to remember.
Wedge your knee between my thighs and slip your fingers into me again, let them be glazed with human light and lift them to your lips, let them tell you what they found. I’ll kneel before the sunset of your skin, its pale tone beginning to blush, evenly, every cell inspired to read, pushing toward that ruddiness of purpose, that sigh.
My hands will wrap around the tendons of your wrists to hold you here, lowered over me like clouds before a storm, the enormous thunder and then the rain.