Mud Feud

When we are dry, we are drought.

Nothing overflows. 

The mouth is scorched

through and through: a 

Dry crevice 

That cannot close.

But in the mud feud, you

lick me like a core commandment:

Your hands the soothing of thunder,

Your bones the first smiting of lightning

Your gaze the holiest drops of rain—

I can hear your face.

The inner voice where 

The pain breaks

         '                         '

                    '   

               '            ''

     ''

           '''         '         ''                            

      

    ''''                                  ' ''

        '        '''         

                            '

and you smell like petrichor 

once more. 

So sing me like a song of Solomon

Forgive this prostitute heart, I am

Unashamed. Brazen.

But as long as you still expect the storm,

I'll run back

Chest first into wet arms,

The heart bowed in service

Like a happy, flippant Prodigal cunt.