i am a seahorse in your water,
roughly scaled to meet your size.
my bones, bitter plastic, crack-flashing
like children collapsing; swell to burst.
pop. pop. balloons of organs, purple, too,
with intensity – your voice drifting
like a vein along my wrist, violet blue.
i'm singing my seasong to you, my world
a part of two. something short, like hell,
or lust, you and your ocean baby.
trust: you must, you must (but i don't
care to have large breasts, not on my chest,
the plate of an aquatic equine, no).
burble bubbles from the deep, and rest,
lie down with fishes. to swim, to float,
to dive down with ladies in seashell c-cups,
sultry sirens of the sea. little ripples of trust,
you lick your fingers and stick them into me,
feel my scaled ribs, light green heart attack.
a turgid tide, your head ebbing back like rust
shuffling off a cliffside, crumbling.
but in a wish, my heart can come true. can you?