The Possum

It must be the way the meat opens
How it pours out like a shattering creak
The sparkle of blood
The glisten in the hot August air
The way it ferments in me
his kiss, wet as the backside of moss
How I lap up his cum with my ladled tongue
Most of my memories of him are like this
Sweat and flesh sealed close by a single sheet
It’s how I wish to remember him always
in my arms, his skin pressed against my bone


Maybe it’s the way he guts me like a possum does its 
roadkill/The deer with its jaw splattered rolling down 
the highway and the possum fishing through its remains
for his next meal/I don’t blame him for taking what he 
needs to survive/the lungs and all/It is in our nature to 
find comfort in the blood of others






 






It must be the                       open
           pour 
                   of blood
The                      hot August 
                 ferments in
his kiss
                      his                                   tongue
                  memories 
                                     close
                                                      always
                                pressed against my bone




         it’s the way he guts me 


         for his next meal/I don’t blame 
                                       the                                       
nature                                            of others






 






                    the way the meat

        sparkles 
        glistens

              wet 
How                                         my            tongue

                             remembers him
                                   pressed against







                            the lungs 
 





 






It must be

















 

                    in the blood






 






____

jason b. crawford (They/Them)was born in Washington DC, raised in Lansing, MI. Their debut Full-Length Year of the Unicorn Kidz is now available from Sundress Publications.