Your sadness is a home in his mouth.

His vocals wrap around your name, a sun in the sky.

His kisses aren’t poetry and safety,

But it hurts to breath without him.


You’re bent over a cold toilet hoping no one walks in,

Hoping no one sees a red that screams down your thighs.

Breasts deflate; skin texture hangs to the knees,

Around your neck, a noose strung of bone and flesh anchors to your waist.


In the soggy dark,

You lay in bed,

A blanket of sadness wet around your limbs,

Your eyes press the ceiling,

You try to postpone your pain,

But traces of him shake skinny in your wrists,

Your ovulations orbit his sermons.


You are the ingredient of his destruction.

You pivot yourself; his sundial, waiting for his rise, his set

Needing shadow,

You say to him, “I am milder now, tell me you like my taste.”

Knob your heart down.

Your in-between is a widening tear in your skin

Stop him.

Stop him.


In his mouth, you are redundant.

He will burn you.


Fetal Sundays


Cirrus clouds lay above us like stretchmark.

Sky, tense womb, pulsates impatience.

Something fetal Sunday burns.


Our lungs inhale sun at high solstice;

Evil waits in uterus

Like the night cranes before dawn.

Her toes curl

The ebb and flow of something cold

Recedes up her thighs

Like a tide turning home.


Lightening is the knife the sky’s hand clings to,

Thunder quivers with us, screams the underbelly of grey clouds.

Breaks the ankles so we are without cold feet.


Men patrol our kisses.

“Where is my gun?” he asks for his arm,

Fingers screaming out bullets pointed to our chests.


Praying to a god with silent ears,

I couldn’t live without her breath

Sliding deep into my lungs like a knife checking the coast.

Lips in fissures of our bodies, where a god’s hollow eye

Buried dark into our cervix, watchful.


Moon protruded, belly in sky

Porcelain spine, waxing and waning

Bending for that gender before anyone lit it coal.

She peeled back her skin to see if God lived in wrist bones.

My sac stretched apart, a grave to hold her prayer.

My throat tightened knowing gravity holds only those it loves.

Guillotine waits to stroke her neck.

A lover’s hunger, slow.


My womb, learning how to breathe

Cried for the girl I lost; water broke,

Tear-spill on horizon, the lip of sky-earth starving to kiss.


Her eyes are deep wells crying to the sun

Saying, “Burn me, burn me. Kill me dry.”

But they’d pulled the sky too far.


Moon dropped into sea, a bomb off-key

Slaving to drown, as if it could breathe

Life is hung dead.

Her fist matches the hole in my chest.

She is empty. She is as sky.


Break my spine.

Open my ribcage.

Steal my heart.


Sky, my grave,

I am home.

I am safe.


Tlotlo Tsamaase