Iyana Sky



How easily lured I am by your calculus-class-passed notes
insinuating what my own mother won’t speak to me of.
I imagine you mean we could be like Andie and Blane,
you with the essokinesis to transform my other
into the purity God never gave. Like lilac nectar pours
my trust, neither raised caterpillar eyebrows nor hair luscious
translating to liar as you lead me to the roof of whichever
building you desire and unveil my unworthy heart palpitations
through the glorious manifestation of our yin yang
bodies locked, nevermind your eye’s blood glint as you tear down
my pants or the carnivorous smack of your lips as I am turned,
never to see how your ecstasy reflects. I imagine your face
as Michelangelo’s Dying Slave and that this moment leads
to tulip lined avenues named after the term coined for the immaculate
meshing of our cores, nevermind how tightly I hold myself after
while you button up and leave, the windless warmth
of an El Paso sun the only life clasping me.