Beth Gordon
HYDROLOGY (XV)
My lover is an apostle of indelible ink, flower petals on my chest, a black X for the nipple that was incinerated with medical waste, he knows how to hold it in his mouth. With an eye for the invisible, he guides my clumsy tongue to the hole where his tooth used to be, where a river or whisky might be truth: he draws a map that leads me to all things abandoned at water’s edge.