Inside
#1 of Poetry
The safety from the beasts is in that warm, quiet place.
Kiss my raw wounds with your tongue
flickering across burning ears,
drenching wisps of tangled hair
as tendons come undone.
Unbending and unwinding
tightened coils of pulsing veins.
Keep searching. Knead my brain.
Count carefully your findings
as your talons work the dough,
for grains inside my aching head.
And stain the cracking riverbeds;
Let the rising floodgates go.