your arms like towers build me and i wish that they would
break me on the grit of your shore, over and over, saltwater cycles
grind me bitter like a pill, the grit of me sand slubbing off on your hands as you climb

break me

breakwater

break this bread

 When they call you witch and mean it

Put your body in my hands. 

There is nothing here to hurt you and nowhere for you to hide.

I will moderate it all for you, turn the air grazing your skin sweet in your lungs.

I warm your back in ten red tracks. 

I would burn the world down for the pleasure of your body.

Know this.

Beloved visitor, tourist with a hungry heart.

I birth the old glory of your joy in my bed. 

I open it all to you.