the crescent of my neck
plant a forest of kisses.
watch how the branches burst forth
and the roots dig deep
here in the fertile crescent of my neck.
plant all the invisible things
that give you shelter when you bleed,
that deliver you from your personal Gethsemane.
yes, even the ones you can’t look in the eye.
plant your desire,
unfurl it and swaddle me in it,
for desire is the antithesis
of decay and God knows how desperately
I’ve been wanting to want something.
now all I want is you.
and here you are, blessing me,
my only begotten miracle,
cradled in the crook of my neck.
you’re at once enough and more than enough,
catapulting me by the minute
between satiation and overstimulation.
my heart is a spinning top.
come home, come home, won’t you?
wander back to my neck.
you needn’t stay forever,
a spell will suffice.
if you were to permanently reside
in this vulnerable curve, oh
dear, I fear I’d implode from bliss,
cease to exist as I know myself to be.
that is to say, we’d become
a delight too wildly transcendent
for mere mortals such as ourselves
to deserve, much less fathom.
Sophia Ordaz is a Chicana writer based in Arkansas. She is currently a master's student in the Comparative Literature program at the University of Arkansas. You can reliably find her in a mosh pit, on her longboard, or in bed reading a book. She occasionally tweets at @krzykittensmile and rants and raves about music at @auralwhiplash on Instagram.