I take my lover’s face. In my palms. Ask my mind.
To swallow it. In the event. Someone yearns. To erase
him. I placate myself. A muted dream. Who can soar.
At a time like this? At the sex toy store. There is a
protest. The line of whiteness. Women with dyed
hair. Stopping the shoppers. I watch two Black
women. Interrupted and yet. They pass through. The
door jingles to greet. Good for them. I am asked not to
cross the line. I have been protesting for months. The
vibrators await. How much fight should I carry with
me? My sleep is deeper after an orgasm. I need
the depth to carry me. Away from being alive. At the
end of a life. I wake up to another death. One that is
not mine. I wonder about time. If it has as much
hunger. As violence does. I turn to my lover.
They smile in their sleep. I cradle into the gulf.
Of their ribs, beckoning. Our bodies wed.
In the deep, I arch. Against the cove. Chests rising.
Their body, mine. Holy architecture. Being human
is an act of climbing. The heavy earth.
Of ourselves. Into hands, glorious.
Tatiana (she/her/hers) is a writer, artist and educator. Her writing explores identity, trauma, especially inherited trauma, and what it means to heal. She completed her MFA in Creative Writing at Emerson College and is a 2021 Tin House Scholar. She also serves on the board for VIDA: Women in Literary Arts. Find her work in or forthcoming at Ploughshares, New Delta Review, Foundry and others.