The Hottest Day

Every air conditioner in the city is broken.
The wind cakes around our thighs, curdles

in our hair. My breasts are musty plums,
your fingers careful switchblades, peeling
the ripe want from my sorghum collarbone.
I am dirty. A dead dog in the gutter.

Your mouth is watering, seaweed spilling from
your wet flaps. A tide of desire washes in.
The chairs float across the apartment floor, moss
climbs the bed posts. You can’t have me, I say,
wringing sweat from my swollen fins.

I want to be soft sea glass. I want to be fresh coral on your tongue. You persist. Don’t touch me, I say. Do not enter this rank cave. You’ll wince and I’ll wilt. Your shudder will stain. I’ll crawl back into my crusty skin, a dried woman with no spine or salt to my name.

But baby, you say, I want to taste your rot and heat. I want to swallow every inch of your filth.
Let me drink your shame. My mouth is watering. The city is soaked.