untitled
for Allison
I find myself sleeping next door
To the first look in your eyes
Nails ten deep in my hips
I count crescent moons
In skin tidal locked
To the ghost of first devotion
To the flavor of sugar, smoke, and chocolate
Shivering, as nerves fire on memory
Oh, hunger
How I wish to feed you
Oh, dear purpose
How I wish to be devoured
Witch, bitch, and full-time disaster, Helen Robertson is a transsexual, bisexual, genderqueer dyke moving through the lifelong process of accepting how lucky they’ve been; using poetry to excise her ire and sorrow—hopefully turning it into something worthwhile. They are a member of the poetry collective VII.