Berm

Your pink palms stroke my face,
cheeks flush sanguine as you finger
bristles along my jawline.
Your tundra gaze, my throbbing
veins, punctuated by the aroma
of dewy grass—toxic to my lungs
like Marlboros that grace
your nether lip every twilight.
I bite, lap blood off
your chapped skin, plunge
my tongue into salivary nirvana.
Do you like how you taste? I think
but will not say, every breath
subtracts from our waltz.
I dare not close my eyes
as your hands traverse
my sweaty back, claw
stiff vertebrae. Exploding
pupils remind me
you crave this, too.
I foist my body
onto yours, roll with me,
bello, linen stains prove
we know our embrace.

Dani Putney is a queer, non-binary, Asian American poet exploring the West. Their poetry most recently appears or is forthcoming in The Blue Mountain Review, Juke Joint Magazine, and trampset, among other publications. Presently, they’re infiltrating a small conservative town in the middle of the Nevada desert.