This furrowed field is my bicycle wheel.
I planted what was wanted and waited,
spun my legs toward hillcrests,
coasted into valleys the topography obscured,
vowed to let the muscles rest but made them climb again.
I wanted to devour you.
You could devour me,
core me like a pineapple scalped for suckling,
sweetness sacrificed to the skin of your chin,
the acid of your insides.
Or slowly, starting with the fingers, swallow
bones-and-all until you understand.
It was magic that slid my torso past your tongue.
Now there’s light like you’ve never seen.
I’m hungry and you feed.
It’s in the turning soil, in the weeks of watching,
in remembering that moonlight will still our steps,
that laughter under bridges isn’t prologue.
This furrowed field is a furrowed field.