Pernicious by Robert Beveridge

Ecstasy

is the split

wrist, the licked

blood. Fingers

pressed to lips, taste

of copper,

feel of oil.

.

Kundalini

is the way the cells

crave. They die

with the numb force

of need. Fed, though,

they continue

content, satisfied.

.

You kiss

the knitted scar

that holds my wrist.

I yours.

This is the exchange,

the fluid commerce

between our mouths,

our lungs, our legs.

.

This is what we are,

what we will be,

transitive creatures

that flow, amoebic.

We ingest exercise,

starvation, give forth

what strength we can.

.

We circle

in this cycle

of anemia,

this thirst

for liquid essence.

We are the halves

that fuse to whole,

become the Rounded Man.

.

This has a name,

a term. It is

demystified,

reduced:

sanguinivorous,

we feast

on one another,

break skin, sup,

are satiated.

.

Soma

is the split

wrist healed.

.

We go forth,

renewed,

awake.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Medium Chill, Mulberry Literary, and Remington Review, among others.

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