Ecstasy
is the split
wrist, the licked
blood. Fingers
pressed to lips, taste
of copper,
feel of oil.
.
Kundalini
is the way the cells
crave. They die
with the numb force
of need. Fed, though,
they continue
content, satisfied.
.
You kiss
the knitted scar
that holds my wrist.
I yours.
This is the exchange,
the fluid commerce
between our mouths,
our lungs, our legs.
.
This is what we are,
what we will be,
transitive creatures
that flow, amoebic.
We ingest exercise,
starvation, give forth
what strength we can.
.
We circle
in this cycle
of anemia,
this thirst
for liquid essence.
We are the halves
that fuse to whole,
become the Rounded Man.
.
This has a name,
a term. It is
demystified,
reduced:
sanguinivorous,
we feast
on one another,
break skin, sup,
are satiated.
.
Soma
is the split
wrist healed.
.
We go forth,
renewed,
awake.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Medium Chill, Mulberry Literary, and Remington Review, among others.