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

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