my chest thistling beneath you / my skin
           a chorus of panic and white coral

too easily I am frightened of my own desire

each breath / each unbound trumpet
is the smallest betrayal I can offer and so I do

           treachery is my hand on your hip
pulling you closer / a crisis snared

and you devouring my tendered secrets—
           I don’t want to be here

my eyes are closed and it’s October
there’s been a mistake / I’ve been lucky

my body has made it this far without me

lying with those bruised Michigan peaches
in the grass like we’ve given up


Jessica Bixel’s recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Birdfeast, Parcel, Handsome, Sink Review, and Houseguest.