by Loie Merritt



I  am becoming  excellent  to a
nether one  in swollen seas  of
placid       bedposts       broken.
Reading sticky pages of a story
started   in   young   skin.   His
squalls now  the color of  glass
ripped   skin   and   rough   sex
scheduled        for         Sunday
afternoons.      The       evening
grows  faster  than  the   woods
left  uncut. I  am  programmed
to   erratic   documentation  of
thighs.  Often  a  stray piece of
hair    falls    into    this   man’s
mouth.   I  am  tasting  of  irish
spring and sour coconut.



How  does this work in organs
mirrored    from    the    inside
coming   out.   Marriage   feels
mostly  of iron  chained to the
rings of her nipples.  It  makes
the want to unbutton. Rip the
contract    with     her     pubic
muscles.     We    were    naked
thirsty then just tongues  then
whisper        then       smolder
knowing  just  where to slip it.
Makes  me  hot the  crease  of
your   upper   thigh   damp  in
slighter shaven folds.  Unwrap
your hide now I’d like to x ray
you   at   midnight  inside  the
woods     away      from      the

Drawings: Egon Schiele, Radical Nude


Loie Merritt poetLoie Merritt is a literary and mixed media artist currently pursuing her MFA at the University of Colorado, where she teaches creative writing and faithfully performs the duties of Prose Editor at Timber Journal. Her prose and poetry has been featured in Vannevar, Storyacious, The Cafe Review, and Lemon Hound among others.

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