Poem 2: Yearn

I do not shear my hair,
Have never donned flannel,
Know nothing about drywall
Or changing my oil.
No labrys tattoo
Slices across my bicep.
I do not sing in the key of rainbow.

I roar through the world,
fat, elegant, and loud.
rolls slapping and rumbling,
my smiles snagging eyes
like foxtails in my socks.
I am 300 pounds of gloriously visible
gravitational pull.
Try and look away.

But labryses cut deep,
and slices of me flake
away, unknown and unheard.

Maybe I yearn.
Maybe my body chants
hot rhythms of desire.
Maybe my fingers twitch toward her.
Maybe my breath dances
to the beat of her footsteps.
Maybe my curves seek to
mold themselves to her bulk.
Maybe we could burn, hot and sweet,
some kind of meteor entering
the drag of atmosphere.
Maybe my words praise her,
my belly ripples in need,
my hair longs to snag in her fingers.
Maybe I belong.

Or maybe not.

I am a giant, a ball of fire
circling the sky.
I can cook the ignorant
and blind the unwary.
I rage in silent splendor,
spilling heat and attention,
body clapping
in appreciation
so deep.

Maybe she burns, too.

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