by Jared Pearce
She says I’m wearing the sins
Of my diseased liver on my yellow
Palms and my blistering feet,
My cracking skin, my sagging meat.
She’s got the effusion, the aroma
Therapy, she’s clinking the cell
Salts into me and whipped up chard
And collards and kale and beats.
She’s greasing my bed time
With shea butter and castor oil,
And a lotion shell to make me gleam.
I wait in the dark, clutching my dream
Of her wanting me, gripping my hide
And smoothing me wide.
Some of Jared Pearce’s poems have recently been or will soon be shared in J Journal, Linden Avenue, DIAGRAM, MUSE, and Life & Legends. He lives in Iowa.