I have eaten the Southern moon.
Grow like fetus while your tongue touches syllables.
The sweat of my desire salts my skin.
I wait until the pan is hot,
lay myself down like the catfish you love to devour,
know already the way I will move,
the contours I will press against.
But you still me before I have gotten hook
and lulled the worm with the lies we both
want to hear. Because truth owes its best
realizations to the fables which still
drip meaning like the blood
I would have bled, if you had only let me
© Coleen T. Houlihan