Our tongues lick dusted edges,
orchards fill with monochromatic
fruit, land grows in inches then miles.
Below, the mountains' white caps
look like the softest nipples drifting.
To pass the time, I craft you a silky
skin suit so we can walk in strange
towns: wigs and ripped up nylons
and our quiet thoughts collecting,
everything unwanted clogging
the storm drains for days.
Once, I dreamt you grew all
of the phallic parts we lacked,
soft and amorphous, tender
yet bionic. Our nights coveted
and turned teeming with sleek
swollen things. Our mouths
not ready for the cotton-dry
morning, bodies blurring
against the cream sky view.
I rent a car on Main Street
my gloved fingers hiding
the mechanical grafts,
hexagonal sockets and thick
metal bars. The tinned copper
wrist bones reflected rays
of light, such tiny chains
each wrapped one atop another.
Kelly Andrews' poems have appeared or are forthcoming in PANK, Prick of the Spindle, Menacing Hedge, Lime Hawk, and Weave Magazine, among others. Her chapbook "Mule Skinner" is available from Dancing Girl Press (2014). Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Anthology. She coedits the online journals Pretty Owl Poetry and Hot Metal Bridge, and has a hand in creating B.E. Quarterly, a sometimes-quarterly zine.