My mother's leather wallet she gave me when I was 16,
its edges blurred, insides soft, a perfect clasp.
Too many excellent T-shirts to count.
ooops I’m waxing material again
So this object is the love we had, cradled between
your wide boobs and my smaller ones,
the new wood under our butts leaving
thin, woodcut shaped scars.
You counting the mosquito bites the next day
me thinking how gay it was for us to fuck in the apple orchard
Eve and Eve, snakes whirring around us,
oblivious to the rushing of fingers in fingers in insides
waving, too, at the early stars
link to video
Aida Muratoglu is a poet living in Brooklyn, NY, whose poetry and criticism have been published in Hot Pink Mag, the Critical Flame, and pan-pan press.
