|January 2006 /Volume Seven / Issue One|
|Andrew Yves Aulino|
Part of my apprenticeship
was perfecting technique;
it was my occupation.
Like scrubbing tiles with a toothbrush,
I did my duty. One stiff middle finger
scoured while her legs jerked.
Her thighs clamped my back and hips
as tightly as lichen on a rock,
drying the stone out until it cracked.
Her lips that smelled like heated sweat
kept open—she applied them that way, with no movement.
In search of nourishment or moisture she
crept quietly after a receptacle,
finding its texture with her fingers;
whatever receptacle happened to hold it, she broke.
Trying to extract what was inside,
furious and ravenous and sweaty,
she shook me but in the hunt,
my limbs and trunk were lost to us both.
|RETURN TO JANUARY 2006|