God’s Spine

Sex is not a one-to-one
ratio of gender to desire.
It is a cloud of fine red dust

falling from the black
windowsill of wordless
night, the fragrant chorus of heat

from our twin bodies begging
redemption. Rough-cut of chest,
fingers moving up to eyes,

shell white rolled
back. Bedding, cold relief,
I trace your outline in sweat. We

fall undone—the spine
of leaf unpinned from its tree.
An opening at the root. Morning

will come with terrible
teeth but now we clap
backs when dynamite goes off.

© Terri Muuss

Author:

Jamie Dedes is a Lebanese-American poet and free-lance writer. She is the founder and curator of The Poet by Day, info hub for poets and writers, and the founder of The Bardo Group, publishers of The BeZine, of which she was the founding editor and currently a co-manager editor with Michael Dickel. Ms. Dedes is the Poet Laureate of Womawords Press 2020 and U.S associate to that press as well. Her debut collection, "The Damask Garden," is due out fall 2020 from Blue Dolphin Press.

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