Ẁ̴̡̙̪̲̘͚̱̑̔͜ͅḧ̶͓́̋͑̏́̓̋̇̓ä̷̱̫̬̤̰̐̈́̑͑̾͆t̵̥̦̍̉͗͆͂͋͘ ̵̢̧̨̣̰̲̹̝̀̿̏͌C̷̪̰͉̞̯̬͚̮̋ṵ̷̱̱͈̊̈́͊̃̈́͗̽̈́́m̶͚̺̋́̋̉͊͘͘͝ ̵̲̙̣̩͑G̴̹̲̍̐̎̈́̐͐͘̕a̵̡̛̘̮̣͕͐͂̽̄͒̀̂v̶̢͕͇̩͖̦̟͋̅̏́͊̽͂̎͛͝e̵͔͈͕̙̲̋̎̏͐͠ ̷̛̛͖̜́̄͌̆̒͐M̸̘̭͖̟̥̱̭͙̫͙̏͛ė̴̪̄

Ginger Jones

You left a bird shaped stain on the front lawn. I didn’t know oil could do that to dirt. Traces of your machine work their way into every crack and hole around here. Your face looks darker now that you’re going to be somebody’s father. Let me kiss it bright again.

Listening to you talk about your future without me feels like being buried alive. I harnessed the wisdom and power from your cum when you fucked me by the river, in the dirt, on the floor, in the bed, out of the sheets, on the kitchen sink. What is love if not the ache of wanting something that was never really there? You haunted me kindly. With rough hands, faithfully.

I will learn how to be a mother and how to stay. How to grow despite the drought. How to press my palm to the earth and feel something kick back. How to kiss a mouth too sweet to hate. How to carry your son like a torch and not a burden. And I will think of you when he disobeys and scrapes his knees. We will do this often and loudly.

Love like this lasts for life even when we’re not touching each other. We’ve got a passion. There’s a fire in the fight. You taught me how to spit like a man. Into the dirt, into my hand, into the soft skull of the little thing we made. You are ancient and broken and I felt it too. If you were to ever call me drunk and crying, asking if he knows your name I might say no but he knows your pain. And that’s what your cum gave me.

Ginger Jones is a poet from California.