She is laying in a bed of milk thistles With wolves in her belly And they claw and yip from inside her And I do the same My paws pressed in the dirt Fur matted Snout billowing hot clouds of white breath teeth pressed The pressure and splitting of soft skin Calmly she makes me her cub Her whimpering wolf Harpy handed and mad Clawing past my silly snarling display For she is the one who lays in a bed of milk thistles For her belly is full of wolves. And I am just another wolf. -A
I press my thumb into the bruises of your fruit. Nectar wet. Nectar wet. Your sweat sour and sweet deep like mud and roots I press my tongue into the bruises of your fruit Nectar wet. Nectar wet. I can smell you ripe or rotting I can smell you fresh and green pulled from the earth or plucked from the vine pressing your grapes between my fingers I consume your wine Nectar wet. Nectar wet. -A
I held court for your feelings at your side, as we presided over the many wars and treaties of your heart. that kingdom of yours that saw so many battles. and when the troubles of the crown weighed on your mind, you would turn to me, your confidant and adviser and sometimes your jester and I would assure you against some doubt you had or make you laugh and privately, away from the eyes of nosey courtiers you would let me hold you in the way no one should ever hold a queen and yet in the only way that ever soothed you -A
Ugh, the fruit allegories, the textures. Its so good
Beautiful poetry as always. And that last one is so romantic. Ironically, I’m presently in the process of rewatching Tut (1st watch for my boyfriend). Kind of makers me think of the show in a slightly different way.