David Estringel

little deaths

We implode—
explode—
in raptures
of liquid light
that set the skin
to sizzle on the spit
like slow-cooked meat,
pulled apart
in greedy clutches,
peeling
skin from skin,
limb from limb,
sinew from bone
until all is gone,
fallen away
in shreds
and trickles.
Tongues prodding,
hungrily,
for the taste of coppery bliss
of chewed lips,
these beautiful bodies—
diminished
heartbeats and exhales
of viscera and vasculature
with eyelids, aflutter—
fade
into black, into white—
dick-teasing,
mind-fucking
strobes of abstract consciousness.
hand-in-hand,
together,
we die
little deaths,
again…
again…
and again—
every morning, a resurrection.