if I drink anymore I’ll burst and still this thirst,
this desert flesh of mine
nurses greedily at the water table,
sucks at the salt and sighs.

I can see you between the vulture’s arches
and I swear those things that look like thorns
are just whiskers on my catcus
… cactus.
I think I need to touch you to know where I am
and if I could fit
between you.

you come to me with those hands and I’m practically
begging you to clip me
to nip this shaking in the bud
to take a piece for your garden
to shift the weight of holding it myself
to show that I too am
succulent.

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