Hedonist

for Anthony

It wasn’t until your
death that I understood
me. Before you, what I craved
was a world that I had only
read about in religion class.
Soon images of my flesh
engulfed in hellfire
followed. Then there
was you. Making tongue
action with oysters and
publicly discussing eating
pussy. I can see it now —
pussy — wet, fleshy, soft, juicy —
I, too, like to eat pussy, but
some forms of pleasure
I keep hidden from the private.
Publicly, I admit. I like
to follow pleasure. I don’t
lust much, I mostly listen.
It’s a heartbeat. It’s a smell.
It’s my stomach turning itself
into my mouth to tell me
something. Then I go.
I’ve never found the
devil that way. Only
people to know
wet pussy
bruised ass cheeks
delicious food
drunken dancing
barefoot in the rain
breasts in the wind
so much dessert
him! his beautiful spirit
city lights
Heartbreak.
never hellfire
but sometimes roaring
burning heartbreak erupting
in my soul — blood all over the walls.
I chase. I like
to chase. So I chase.
No one stops eating
because they got food poisoning once.

Flose Boursiquot is a Haitian-born poet and writer. Her work has appeared in Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, HuffPost, on Blavity, and in 2017, BET named Flose one of its millennial poets to watch. The Malala Foundation's Assembly Platform featured Flose’s story and spoken word poem “March On Sister” in their September 2018 issue. Connect with Flose via www.letitflose.com or on Twitter @letitflosepoet.