ℌ𝔞𝔤𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰

a poem about holes

‍ My lover, distrusting his eyes, or perhaps the light, tests hagstones with his mouth:

two lips press into a tight seal and push squealing breath through their openings.

I am a stone, I tell him. Press your mouth against me, and see what sounds emerge.

This is not a hole, he tells me, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger, and staring into the black cave of my mouth. It leads nowhere.

This is not a hole, he tells me, fingers clutched inside my cunt. It’s a dead end.

This is a hole, I tell him, slippery thumb against the grip of my anus.

These soft curves, so antonymic to your rocks, are nothing but the brief elaboration of a tube. You don’t need air to see that this is going somewhere.

My hips are waves, my breasts are are the soft sand, lapped by an ocean of thirst and salt.

He calls me pretentious, and said he never cared for Leonard Cohen much anyway.

Three weeks later we break up.

This is not a hole, I say, pressing my palm firmly to my ribs, where my heart sits.

I return to the beach, to find myself a new lover.