-Michelle Gil Montero

Never asked me before

About erotics, the edges of my desire

It came against a silence in me

A wishing to speak

Knife tip through slits

In the gauze of the unsayable

My tongue slips retreats

Back in from the lip of abandon

Everything hangs before me like confession

Curtain fine enough to cut truth from

Where it lives on the verge of

Closer to what it verges on

The erotic is making dinner

Distracted by a general heat

The day is draining saying

Nothing with all its light freed

Finally to shine its last gasp on another

The season’s cut from the clouds

Body frilled with pink then violet

Smooth then ridged, curvaceous

“clouds have voluptuous names” says the poet

I add, words disperse wisps on the tongue

Razored, julienned, light torn

For wanting closeness to those cleaved colors

There’s a scissored beating of all the touch I won’t

Reach carving my sensitivity